


Absolution

by Sijglind



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Flashbacks, I'm serious - there is a lot of stuff happening in here, Inspired by Music (some chapter titles), Inspired by another fanfic, M/M, Memory Loss, Past Tense, Present Tense, Pseudo-Incest, Rated M for future smut, Romance, a freaking lot of swearwords, slow progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-17 05:49:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/548286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sijglind/pseuds/Sijglind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Your Loki died when his <i>brother</i> let him down! There is no Loki anymore, only <i>Lucas</i>."</p><p> </p><p>After the events of the movie and Loki's fall, he doesn't end up with the Other and his Chentauri, but falls to earth. With no memory of who he is or where he came from, he tries to build a new life on earth, oblivious to his brother searching for him.</p><p>If I manage, I will try to update every few days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Only Dream Of You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Syrus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrus/gifts).
  * Inspired by [No Turning Back](https://archiveofourown.org/works/203988) by [Syrus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrus/pseuds/Syrus). 



> First, I want to thank Syrus for letting me use the idea of Loki falling to earth and losing his memory. If you haven't read the Fanfic 'No Turning Back' yet, do so, I highly recommend it!
> 
> The chapter title is taken from Muse's 'Sing for Absolution'.  
> This can be read as a sequel to my other Fanfic 'The thinnest Line', but it is not necessary to have read the other fanfic to understand this one.  
> Please enjoy and feel free to leave me feedback.
>
>>   
>  _To Syrus, and again to Sara_   
> 

_The golden metal of the staff feels warm, too warm, just on the wrong side of warm. But his hand around this uncomfortable heat is the only thing standing between him and the gaping black mouth of the universe._

 

_He glances into the star-sprinkled abyss beneath his feet only for a heartbeat, but the shivers running down his spine don't stop even when he looks back at the golden-haired god above him._

 

_This is it then. This is how it ends._

 

“ _Please, Brother...” The blue eyes are staring at him, begging him to hold on. He sees them glinting with unshed tears. Even now, after their fight, his br-- the Asgardian still has feelings for him that are uncorrupted by hatred. It is unbearable._

 

_For a moment, he holds the Thunderer's gaze with his own. There are so many things he wants to tell him, but he can't. The words are in his throat, eager to claw their way upwards and out, but he holds them back, swallows them down. It feels as if they scratch his tubes on their way into the depth called Never Spoken._

 

_Gungnir's shaft feels so hot now it burns the skin of his hands, and he knows with unwavering certainty that he won't be able to hold on much longer._

 

_He can feel his facial muscles tighten around his smirk, but there is a wet trail on his cheek, and he hopes desperately that it is not discovered by the god hanging over the Bifröst's shattered edge. The blond might forgive him, but Asgard will scream for brutal Vengeance on the traitor, the trickster, the thorn in their flesh that threatened to disgrace them solely by existing._

 

_There is no other way out than through the darkness beneath him, no going back for him. No apologies._

 

_He lets go and is swallowed by the hungry endlessness of the universe. His adoptive brother's scream follows him until it vanishes like the sight of the golden towers of Asgard._

 

* * *

 

He jolts awake with a gasp and cold sweat covering his skin. It felt as if he has fallen out of his dream right into the warm embrace of his bed. His heart is beating furiously in his chest, and he clutches his shirt right above the organ.

 

 _Calm down_ , he tells himself and tries to even his breathing. He feels on edge, his whole body is shaking, and there is the stinging of a headache starting to form right behind his eyes.

 

The dream is not unfamiliar to him, it has become a regular visitor in his sleep since he woke up in the hospital, three months ago. At first, he had dismissed it as a normal outburst of fantasy. It hadn't mattered that the images of it were burned into his mind like a branding, detailed and clear unlike other dreams that start to fade and twist as soon as he opens his eyes.

 

But that special dream kept returning. It comes again and again to him in his sleep. He fights the blond man again and again, and he doesn't even know why or for what. And he doesn't understand why he lets go at the end, although he wishes for nothing more than be pulled up by the other.

 

He has no idea if the blond is really his brother, or if this is even a living person he knew before he lost his memory. God, he doesn't even remember his own name, so how should he know _anything_?!

 

A glance at the glowing ciphers of the alarm clock tells him it's three thirty in the morning. Rachel has to get up in half an hour for her morning shift.

 

For a moment he thinks about going back to sleep, but thinking about the weird dream he just had, he decides to stay awake anyway. He's not too eager to put up with more of it right now.

 

He tiptoes into the kitchen as quietly as he can and starts to boil water for the nurse's morning coffee – fuel, as she calls it. It has become a ritual since he moved in with Rachel, and his hands nearly move on their own; they fill the kettle with water from the tap, get her favourite cup out of the dish washer and put milk and sugar on the counter next to it. The downside of this daily routine is that he has plenty of time to think about his dream. Again and again his thoughts return to the blond man hanging over the edge of the shattered bridge, holding onto the staff that prevents the man he calls brother from falling into space.

 

Was the man truly his brother? The doctors told him that there would be memories coming back to him after a time, and that they would leave a headache behind. So, why not? Maybe the blond was his brother and his brain was just a bit, well, confused and therefore entwining fantasy with reality. But then, his 'brother' could be a product of his fantasy as well. It was frustrating.

 

He knows nothing about who he is, nothing about his family – if he has one –, nothing about his origins. He doesn't even remember the accident that had caused the amnesia.

 

He is completely and utterly lost in a city he doesn't remember, without a life, without a name, without a memory. The only thing he has are his dreams, confusing and absurd, orbiting around a man he had called Brother. But something must have happened between them, and he can't help but wonder why they are fighting in his dreams, why he lets go at the end, running away from the help he's been offered.

 

He can see it in his brother's eyes – he has decided to call the blond that, for the lack of any other name – he can see that he wants to _help_. When he closes his eyes, he sees his brother hanging over the shattered edge, clutching the strange staff as if his own life depends on it. He sees the shining blue eyes begging him to not let go, to come back to him, because he will make it all right, he will make them forget, no matter the cost. But his silent pleas are not answered. _Why?_

 

The ear-piercing screech of the kettle rips him forcefully out of his musings, and he hurries to take it off the stove before Rachel is woken by it earlier than necessary. But it seems he's been too slow because there's the sound of naked feet on wooden boards, and soon after she appears in the door frame, rubbing the sleep drowsily out of her eyes while stifling a yawn. Her wide nightgown makes her look smaller and younger than she actually is and he can't help the smile tugging at his lips at the sight of her. It's like he has to humour a grumpy child every morning.

 

“Good morning,” he whispers and receives a sleepy grunt as answer. Rachel slumps into one of the chairs at the small table and he puts the steaming mug of coffee down in front of her. Describing her as a Zombie before she got the right amount of caffeine into her system was not enough. They sit together in comfortable silence, nursing their mugs of the bitter and hot beverage until Rachel has already downed half of hers.

 

“Thanks, Lucas” she finally says, not that sleepy and grumpy any more, and even capable of smiling at him.

 

Lucas, that's his name here. Not John Doe, Lucas. Rachel had offered him a list of names before he moved in with her and he had picked that one, because it had felt at least _a bit_ familiar.

 

“I won't call you John Doe,” she'd said and pushed a piece of paper over the table towards him. “We're not part of one of these fucked up detective stories, so take your pick.”

 

And so he had started his life as Lucas, the man that was found naked and unconscious in an alley somewhere in Berlin, unharmed but amnesic.

 

He had woken up in a hospital, IVs and tubes sticking out of his body and ending in beeping machines. Rachel had been there, sitting on a chair next to his bed, an open book on her knees, _Moby Dick_ written in golden letters on its spine.

 

“Good afternoon,” she'd said, just loud enough for him to hear. Apparently she'd read his next question on his face, because she told him, “You're in a hospital.”

 

They looked at each other, without saying anything else, just sitting there silently, taking their time to get to know each other without saying a word. He took his time to take her in, save her image in his mind, every detail; the way the wild cloud of copper-blond curls fell over her shoulders, the roundness of her face, the green, curious and intelligent eyes hidden behind big and thick-rimmed glasses, the soft curves of her body she's not able to hide even under the wide nurse uniform. He collected all the information he could, catalogued it inside his head and he didn't even know why. Still doesn't know.

 

“Where am I?” His voice sounded raspy and dry, and she stood up to pour him a glass of water. She is small, he noticed and added it to his list.

 

“Berlin, Germany,” she answered when she gave him the glass and he drank greedily, gulping the cool liquid and let it sooth his throat. He had been so thirsty, like a man in the desert. When he finished, he stared at the empty glass. A drop of water was running down its surface until it dripped onto his blanket, leaving a small, dark spot behind.

 

Rachel was still standing next to him, waiting for him to speak, giving him all the time he needed.

 

“Who am I?” He asked, and she shook her head sympathetically.

 

“We have no idea.”

 

“Where are you right now?” she asks and brings him back to the now and here again. Back to the small table in their kitchen at four o'clock in the morning. Lucas smiles weakly and plays with the mug in his hands.

 

“I thought about how we met,” he tells her, staring into the black liquid in front of him as if he can find the answers to his many questions at its bottom. Rachel only nods and takes another sip from her coffee. She never pushes him to answer her questions or talk to her and he likes that. It's not indifference from her side, it's understanding.

 

“I've had that dream again,” he tells her, and she looks up, waits for him to say more or not in his own time. “I let go again. I don't know why. _I don't understand it!_ Every god-damn night I'm dangling from that bridge, wishing for nothing more than to be pulled up by him, but _I won't let him do it!_ ”

 

He sighs and buries his face in his hands. He desperately wants to understand the feeling of guilt bubbling in his stomach, but the emptiness inside his mind won't let him. Her hand is warm on his arm, and soon afterwards he hears the chair grinding over the floor and feels her chest pressing against his neck, her arms around his shoulders. It feels good and he leans back into the embrace, inhales the scent of citrus and disinfectant that is Rachel. She makes him feel safe, he doesn't know from what, but it seems important and her warmth is comforting.

 

They stay like this for some time, until she gives him a last reassuring squeeze before she lets go. “It will be all right.”

 

Lucas nods weakly, and listens to her walking into the bathroom.

 

* * *

 

There is something to the smell of books that feels familiar. Lucas likes to stick his nose into one of them and inhale deeply until the scent of paper and ink fills his nostrils. It helps him relaxing, and that's why he took the job at the library. Maybe it will help him get his memory back, maybe it won't, but at least he has something to do and he has the chance to give Rachel something back. He knows she would never ask for something in return, because it is in her nature to tend to those who need her help without ulterior motive.

 

But Lucas wants to show her how grateful he is for her help and that he doesn't take it as granted, because, when you look at it, not every nurse would offer to share her flat with her amnesic patient.

 

He'd asked her if she was sure to take the risk. “What if it turns out I'm a serial killer?” He'd asked on the day he'd been released from the hospital. “What if I get my memory back and I hurt you?”

 

To his disbelief, she had just smiled as if he had made a joke. “I mean it!” He'd told her and reached out to take her hands in his. “You've been kind to me and I am grateful for it, but please, Rachel, don't be stupid and bring yourself into danger.” He said it with all honesty and seriousness he has to offer, but when his eyes met hers, he only saw amusement. It was bewildering.

 

“Rachel, I mean it!”

 

She leaned in and smiled and he couldn't believe it. She wasn't taking him seriously, how couldn't she take him seriously? How could she be so careless to ignore his warnings? He opened his mouth to ask her all these questions, but before a single syllable could leave his lips, she'd silenced him by lifting a hand.

 

And then she explained. “When I look into your eyes, I see a sad man. A troubled man. I see misery and guilt and confusion. And fear.” He let his head drop and his shoulders slump. Her thumb caressed the back of his hand in soothing circles and he followed it with his eyes.

 

“But what I don't see,” she continued, and reached out to lift his chin so he was forced to look into her eyes. Their green pools were drawing him in and he felt as if she was looking right into him, into his mind, turned him inside-out, leaving him bare and naked. It shouldn't have felt as good as it did. “What I don't see is evil. No hidden darkness.”

 

Rachel brushed the ebony strands of hair out of his face and behind his ears. “I trust you. And you should learn to trust yourself.”

 

Lucas opens his eyes again, not aware of the smile ghosting over his lips, and puts the book in his hand back into its place on the shelf in front of him. He can hear the whisper of pages being turned, silent footsteps echoing off high walls, and the sounds feel so comfortingly familiar that he is sure that he's spent a lot of time inside libraries in his forgotten life. Pacing off the seemingly endless lines of books, he lets his eyes wander over their spines, just barely taking the titles in. _The Greek Mythology and its Monsters_ , he reads, _Germanic Folklore_ , and _Roman Gods_. He doesn't give them much further notice, until his fingertips come to a halt on golden letters.

 

His heart starts to beat faster for no particular reason, at least none he is able to point out. There is sweat on the palms of his hands when he pulls the book out of the shelf. It's heavy and old and bears the signs many hands leave over the course of years. _Old Norse Tales_ , the title reads.

 

His hands are shaking and his throat feels dry. There is a lump that threatens to suffocate him and he tries to swallow it down, but it is no use. Hesitantly, his fingertips follow the bold letters imprinted on the cover and something in the back of his mind stirs, starts to scratch at the door it is locked up behind, begging to be let outside.

 

Lucas' hands are weak and numb, and he fears the book might fall from his grip, but he can't stop himself from opening it. His eyes are drawn to a line of words in the index on the first page.

 

_Thor, God of Thunder – Page 23_

 

God of Thunder. Thunder. Thunderer. His fingers flip through the pages on a frantic search, his breath coming short and raspy from his lungs. Page twenty-three, page twenty-three. _Page twenty-three!_

 

A picture, showing the God of Thunder, a name, Thor, blond hair, blue eyes, his breast swelling with pride, a cape the colour of freshly-shed blood.

 

There a words, seemingly random, pressing out of the text and into his consciousness. Asgard, Yggrasil, Midgard, Thunderer, Mjölnir, son of Odin Allfather, his brother _Loki, Loki, Loki..._

 

Black dots dancing in front of his eyes, breathe, not enough air, breathe, pain thrumming behind his eyes, a thump when the book hits the floor, sharp pain when his knees follow the book to the ground, hands clutching the sides of his head, a strangled whimper of pain.

 

“Lucas! Oh my God! Someone call an ambulance!”

 

Hands on his forehead, on his neck, on his chest, voices around him, pictures flashing through his mind, mixing up, colliding, Thor thrusting his hammer into the sky, lightning, thunder, a shared smile, young boys running through wide halls, a warm hand against a cold one, the other name again, _Loki_.

 

Darkness.

 

* * *

 

“Can you see him, Heimdall?”

 

The gatekeeper is ever-vigilant. He sees everything, everyone, everywhere. Everyone but one.

 

Every day, Thor finds his way to the edge of the shattered Bifröst. Every day he is asking the very same question. And every day, Heimdall gives him the same answer.

 

“No.”

 

The footsteps come to a halt next to him, but Heimdall never abandons his watch, never turns away. “Either he has not shown himself yet, or he is no longer alive.”

 

The crown prince nods, his shoulders are slumped. There are lines of worry around his eyes, digging deeper into his skin with every day without news about his lost brother.

 

“Send for me if anything changes,” Thor says after a while in which he had been staring into the pattern of galaxies beneath them. Then he turns around and makes his way back towards the palace, head and shoulders drooping under the invisible weight he is carrying around.

 

“I will,” Heimdall says.

 

 


	2. Drawn To The Abyss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tell me, Heimdall,” she asks. “Has Thor asked you about the mortal he is so fond of? Jane?” There is an uncomfortable feeling settling down inside her stomach she cannot explain.

 

Frigga sees the sadness written all over her son's face. She sees the despair, the loss, the misery. She feels the pain, the helplessness. She, too, is mourning. The loss of a son, the loss of her other son's happiness. 

 

Thor has become but a shadow of his former self. He wanders through the palace, but his mind is elsewhere, trapped in a darker place filled with self blame and guilt. Frigga knows that he is wrong. It was not his fault his brother strayed from the right path. It is not his fault Loki let go of Gungnir and fell to the unknown. 

 

If anyone is to blame it is the brothers' parents, for they had been keeping the secret of Loki's origin. But their intentions had been good. How should they have known what would happen? _How could they have not known?_

 

She had loved Loki as much as she loves Thor. And she still loves him, even now after he had turned against them. Never had she seen him as anything else than her son. Because that is what he is. Was.

 

She doesn't know if Loki is dead, and if not, if there is hope of him ever returning to his rightful place as son of Asgard. Thor is not able to give him up, and Frigga wishes she could share his hope.

 

* * *

 

Frigga watches her son from the head of the table. Thor is sitting next to his oldest and most loyal friends, Lady Sif and the Warriors Three. They are laughing heartily, at least so it seems, but Frigga's long life has made her wise and observant. She can see the worry drawing Lady Sif's eyebrows slightly together, hears Fandral laugh a bit too loud, notices Volstagg's plate being not empty yet, and sees the way Hogun glances at Thor again and again. She is not naïve, she knows they do not worry about Loki, but about what his fall did to his brother. Their expressions of sympathy towards her had been genuine, Frigga knows that, but they are not mourning for Loki as much as she wishes for.

 

Loki has never been loved by the Asgardians as much as Thor. His pranks, tricks and plays had costed him the sympathy of his victims. His otherness costed him the benignity of the remaining Æsir. They couldn't accept that he had been more talented in trickery and magic than in warfare and weapon wielding. _Odd_ had been the nicest word used to describe the infamous Odinson. 

 

And when Loki turned, as an act of confusion and hurt, the Asgardians said it had only been a matter of time until something like this would have happened.

 

Of course, nobody dares to say it out aloud when they are in the company of their King and Queen, but Frigga knows, because Frigga sees. And Frigga hears the whispers, the way the name _Loki_ is spoken with disgust and disapproval, and without understanding. It hurts nearly as much as the loss of her son itself. 

 

The queen of Asgard lays her cutlery down next to her plate, all appetite gone. Her eyes seek out her remaining son again, and it stings in her chest when she sees his weak and sad smile, and the way his eyes return to the vacant seat on her right again and again. It is Loki's chair he is staring at, and the pain clawing at his soul is showing all too clearly on his face. 

 

Lady Sif has noticed it as well, and her hand reaches out to lay down on Thor's forearm in a gesture of comfort. Thor tears his eyes away from the empty seat to look at her. The smile he offers is meant to be reassuring, but it shows too much sadness. He puts his hand on top of hers, squeezes it lightly before he lets go to take another gulp of mead from his goblet. 

 

Thor's eyes are already glassy from the amount of alcohol he is trying to drown his sorrows in and Frigga cannot endure it any longer to watch him slowly coming to pieces. 

 

Her hand finds its way to her husband's, who is sitting to her left, and their fingers entwine. Odin has followed her gaze towards their first-born, and she sees her own grief mirrored on his face. Losing one child was excruciating, being witness to the other losing himself in grief and self blame was devastating.

 

For once, both the King and Queen of Asgard are completely and utterly at their wits' end.

 

* * *

 

Every evening the Queen watches her son wander towards the edge of the Bifröst from her balcony. Every evening she sees him exchanging words with Heimdall and staring over the brink into the abyss that has swallowed his brother. And every evening it seems as if Thor's shoulders slump a bit more when the gatekeeper has no news to offer.

 

Frigga's eyes follow the retreating and hunched form of her son until he vanishes through the palace doors. This evening, she decides to speak to Heimdall herself.

 

Her heart sinks upon the sight of the shattered edge. The Bifröst's dome is not the only thing that has been lost at this place.

 

“My Queen,” Heimdall acknowledges her presence, and slowly bows his head to greet her.

“Heimdall,” she answers and nods in return, coming to a halt at the very same spot Thor just had stood on. “I take it you had no good news for my son?”

 

“I had not,” he confirms. “Prince Loki is out of my reach.”

 

“I had expected as much.” Frigga shakes her head over her foolishness. There had been a bit of remaining hope insider her to find her son, but the spark had been snuffed out by Heimdall's words like a candle by a gust of wind. She turns to leave, but stops as soon as a new thought comes to her mind.

 

“Tell me, Heimdall,” she asks. “Has Thor asked you about the mortal he is so fond of? Jane?” There is an uncomfortable feeling settling down inside her stomach that she cannot explain. 

 

“No,” the gatekeeper says. “He has not done so for some time.”

 

* * *

 

Lucas opens his eyes slowly and blinks. The light in the room is dimmed by the curtains in front of the windows and he needs some time to realize he is laying in his own bed. He has no memory of how he got here. Again.

 

He turns his head to see Rachel sitting on a chair next to his bed, an open book on her lap. The scene feels ironically familiar. 

 

“Rachel,” he whispers and she lifts her head so swiftly that he feels like he caught her red-handed. To his confusion she hurries to shut the book on her lap and presses it to her chest so he can't see the title. There is a nervous glint in her eyes, and he wonders what there is about this book that makes her feel so on edge. Maybe she's reading something smutty, he thinks and suppresses a smile. 

 

“Hey,” the nurse says softly. “How are you feeling?” 

 

“Okay,” he answers and clears his throat to get rid of the raspy sound of his voice.

 

“I'll get you something to drink.”

 

He nods and watches her leave the room, listens to her filling a glass with water from the tap. When she comes back, the book has vanished. He wants to ask her about it, but he forgets it as soon as he sees the glass and realizes how thirsty he is. Rachel hands him it to him and he sits up a bit to drink. 

 

“Thanks,” he says when the glass is empty, and Rachel takes it from him to put it on the bedside table.

 

“You're welcome.”

 

“So what happened?” He asks while Rachel sits down on the edge of his bed. “How come I wake up in a bed again without knowing what happened?” She takes his wrist in her hand to check his pulse, and only answers when she has done so and is satisfied by the result. “You passed out at work.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Yeah. Oh.”

 

There is a small wrinkle forming between her brows whenever she is worried. Lucas has seen it quite often since he woke up to her sight the first time, and this time it is no different.

 

Rachel's body language is so open, so easily to read Lucas could say it is screaming out to him. By now, he's seen all of it; affection, disgust, worry, annoyance, confusion, curiosity, seriousness, determination, fear, anger – everything has been added to his list of her. Her honesty is fascinating. It reminds him of something... _someone--_

 

A sudden, piercing pain inside his head makes him hiss. It's a sharp pang that swiftly vanishes, leaving a numb sensation in its wake. As if someone had stabbed a blade through his skull. 

 

“Lucas?” Rachel's voice is heavy with worry and he feels her weight shifting on the bed, her hands on his shoulders, her warmth seeping through the thin layer of his shirt. His eyes are closed and he presses the balls of his hands against them, rubs the remaining ache away.

 

“It's okay,” he tries to reassure her but it lacks the right amount of confidence to be persuading. He can imagine her perking one of her brows at him, saying with that simple movement to stop fucking around and tell her the truth. “Well, it will be okay, it's already getting better,” he corrects and ignores the snort of disbelieve she offers him as answer. That woman could be so stubborn, just like... like...

 

It is there, inside Lucas' mind, a name, and he reaches out to grab it. He can feel it, _it's there_ , just behind that door, scratching, begging to be let out. And he can do it, he can open that door, he just has to focus, just a bit more, focus... only a bit--

 

“ _Stop it_!”

 

His hands are forcefully torn away from his eyes by small but strong hands around his wrists and he looks up to find Rachel looming over him, her eyebrows drawn together with anger, her lips pressed to thin lines of disapproval. She repeats what she'd just said, the words fighting their way out of her mouth through clenched teeth. “Stop. It.” 

 

Her fingers press down so hard on his wrists that he can feel his own pulse.

 

“Stop _what_?” Lucas' voice is dripping with defiance and his glare is sending daggers, covering his confusion over her harsh behaviour. But the nurse seems to be unaffected. 

 

“Stop _thinking_ ,” she answers and lets go of his wrists to cross her arms over her chest. Her voice is ice, and her expression dead serious. It is... unsettling to see her like this, and he laughs to ridicule what she'd just said. He puts as much sarcasm into the next words as he is capable of.“You want me to stop thinking? And how am I supposed to do that?”

 

Lucas watches the mask of sternness crumbling on her face, being replaced by exhaustion. Rachel's shoulders slump ever so lightly and she sits down on his bed again. He lets her.

 

“Look, Lucas, I'm sorry.” A deep, exasperated sigh. Her hands twitch in her lap, as if she wanted to reach out to him, but decided against it. “But you should have seen yourself. Grinding your teeth, pressing your hands to your eyes so hard that I already could see them ending up at the back of your skull.” He feels the corners of his mouth twitch at the imagery, but Rachel doesn't seem to notice, because she goes on, “I don't want you to stop thinking, of course not. I meant to say you should stop _forcing_ it. Forcing yourself to remember.” Now she takes his hand into hers, squeezes it lightly to underline her words, to give him a feeling of assurance. “You will remember, your memories _will_ come back. But...”

 

Her eyes drop and she looks at their hands, starts to caress the skin between his thumb and index finger in circles with her thumb, if to sooth him or herself he isn't sure. There was more to that last _but_ , something hidden inside it he can't point out yet, something that makes the lump in his throat return.

 

“There is a protective mechanism inside our brains,” she continues after a long pause. Her voice is struggling to stay neutral. “It only... activates... in extreme situations. _Really_ extreme situations.” She's looking for the right words, he can see it in the way she's staring at nothing in particular in the space in front of her, in the way she bites her lip in uncertainty. Lucas swallows. Once. Twice. The lump won't move. He has a sense of foreboding, and the air is filled with something uneasy.

 

“Extreme situations demand extreme solutions. This mechanism has them.” She taps her temple with her index finger, still staring holes into the air. “It wipes _everything_ from your mind. Completely. And if you try to remember, it knocks you out again. Makes you forget, because if you remembered, it would crush you.”

 

He knows where this is going, but...

 

“Lucas.” She turns towards him, takes his face into her hands and searches for any sings on it. But Lucas doesn't know which face to show her. A confident one? Disbelieving? Troubled? He doesn't know. He has no idea.

 

“Lucas, I am so sorry,” Rachel whispers, and there are tears glinting in her green eyes, red rims around them, wet eyelashes sticking together. “But I think something terrible happened to you.” 

 

 


	3. One Step Closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is no reason for him to hide any longer. It doesn't matter what he is hiding from. Not any more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Linkin Park - One Step Closer

 

 

The flick of a lighter. A deep breath. The faint smell of smoke creeping through the room. Normally Rachel doesn't smoke inside the flat, but at the moment, normal situations are rare. She needs that now, nicotine, the illusion of relaxation. 

 

So much happened today.

 

Closing her eyes, she lets her head sink back into the soft cushions of her armchair. It's already late and she has been awake since three thirty in the morning, she needs sleep. But her mind won't come to rest, unable to let go of the day's events.

 

The pictures have been carved into the inside of her eyelids. Lucas slack, pale face, the cold sweat on his forehead, the damp strands sticking to it, the hollow cheeks, the raspy, low breaths, his slow but at least steady pulse.

 

She remembers how she stood there, still in her nurse uniform. They'd called her as soon as Lucas passed out and she'd left immediately, dropping everything. 

 

She is a nurse, she's seen a lot in her job already. Patients being reduced to a drooling mess or made paraplegic by head traumas, amnesic rape victims, brain hemorrhage, cluster headache, some of her patients taking their last breaths way too soon. Of course it had affected her. She is not made of stone. That's why it hit her so hard. Lucas, on the floor, unconscious, knocked out by his very own brain. For a moment, she could do nothing but stand there without saying a word. The time started to slow down, dragging out the moment of dread for her to suffer it thoroughly. She didn't really notice that she was pushed to the side by one of the paramedics, didn't hear Celine call out her name, didn't feel the hand of comfort on her arm. She just stood there.

 

And then she snapped out of it, the time regained its normal pace, the sound returned, same as her senses. She was at Lucas' side in an instant, checking his pulse, brushing the renegade strands of hair from his face. 

 

It was not until the paramedics put him on the stretcher that she noticed the book. He had lain on top of it, half burying it beneath him. It was open on page twenty-three and the first thing she saw was the picture of a man. Blond, muscular, proud, wielding a huge hammer. _Thor, God of Thunder_ the line beneath the picture said.

 

Lost in thought, Rachel strokes the cover of the book resting in her lap. She has already read through it while waiting for Lucas to wake up again. The picture of the man doesn't let her go. Lucas described his brother as blond, blue-eyed, muscular and wielding a big hammer as a weapon. Mjölnir. 

 

_A mighty hammer forged out of a dying star by the Dwarves Sindri and Brokkr for a bet with Loki. Thor_ _would be able to strike as firmly as he wanted, whatever his aim, and the hammer would never fail, and if he threw it at something, it would never miss and never fly so far from his hand that it would not find its way back._

 

That name again, Loki. Black haired, green eyed and pale faced, called trickster and Silvertongue, Thor's brother, son to Odin Allfather and his wife Frigga. Rachel turns the page and finds herself eye in eye with the smirking God of Mischief. The text introduces him as the not-so-popular Odinson who spent most of his time learning magic and playing pranks on the other gods. He is described as a powerful sorcerer, but in Asgard, the Norse Gods' kingdom, magic was something for women and apparently not suited for the sons of Kings. His favourite weapon seems to be his mind anyway. 

 

Rachel sighs. Now she's describing the old Norse gods as a fact, as if they actually existed. But there are no gods, no such things as Asgard and Yggdrasil. 

 

Why is Lucas mixing these old believes up with his past? Why did he put his brother in Thor's and himself in Loki's position in that fight on the bridge with the strange name – Byfrost, no, Bifröst? Maybe there were parallels. Two brothers competing for their parents love and... the throne? Could be a head position for something, a company. On the other hand, the son of a family that had a company doesn't simply go missing without someone looking for him. It would be all over the news. But there is nothing, no missing person reports, no pictures smiling from newspapers and the television screen next to a telephone number to call to provide information.

 

Rachel sighs and takes another cigarette out of her packet. She really should stop, but she can't, not at the moment at least. Too many things circling in her mind, too many unanswered questions. The lighter flicks a second time and smoke rings are dancing in the light of the street lamps pouring through the window.

 

Nobody is looking for Lucas. Either he has no family any more, or they do not care about him.

 

Rachel doesn't know what would be worse. 

 

* * *

 

Sif hesitates in front of the door to the Queen's rooms. She's a fearless Shieldmaiden, fierce and victorious on the battlefield, but cautions in a room filled with ladies in waiting. Sewing, weaving and embroidery just isn't for her, she prefers the heavy and reassuring weight of a sword and the rush of battle over the lightness of a needle and giggling over handsome and unwed lads. 

 

She has fought Frost Giants and huge boars before, she was on hunts with her friends and she could beat every single one of them in a spar – she can do this. A nod towards the guards and the doors are opened giving way to the vast rooms behind them. 

 

It is quieter than she thought. The ladies in waiting are sitting in small groups together, attentively doing their work. All their conversations are kept to the degree of a murmur. It smells of sweet flowers and fragranced oils. Sif slowly walks around the room, looking for Frigga, but her blond Braid is nowhere in sight. Only a few of the women look up and at her, but they swiftly return to their handiwork, paying the Shieldmaiden little notice. 

 

Sif shifts her weight from her balls to her heels, unsure what to do with herself. She just hopes Frigga has not forgotten that she wanted to see her.

 

“Lady Sif.” Apparently, the Queen hasn't. She is standing in the door to her terrace, and Sif hurries to get to her. “Your Majesty,” she says and nods. 

 

“Let us take a walk in the garden and enjoy the sun for a bit, shall we?” Frigga asks and gestures towards the neatly kept rows of flowers outside. 

 

They step outside and walk along the stone ways meandering through the garden. For some moments neither of them says anything, so that their steps, the singing of the birds and the whisper of the wind in the trees are the only sounds. It is peaceful. But Sif is not accustomed to peaceful. She is accustomed to war; battle cries, sweat, blood, adrenaline. 

 

“It is quite tranquil out here,” the Shieldmaiden says to brake the silence between them, and smiles. “It is,” Frigga confirms. “But I did not want to talk to you about my gardens, and I assume you know that.” She gestures towards a bench. “Let us sit down and talk.”

 

Sif does as told and sits down on the stone bench close to an ancient looking weeping willow. The branches hang low, building a thick, green curtain around the gnarled trunk. Frigga must have followed her gaze, because she says, “Thor and Loki used to sit in this tree whenever they felt the need to hide from me.” Her smile is sad and filled with grief. She sits down next to Sif on the bench, a sigh on her lips, and suddenly her face looks so much older than before. The lines in her face have become deeper in the months since Loki's death-- disappearance? Thor believes his adoptive brother is still out there, hiding beneath his magic and trickery. Sif does not know if Loki is still alive, but if so, she cannot help the feeling that he is lost nevertheless, beyond any hope and reasoning.

 

“I wanted to ask a favour of you, Lady Sif.” Frigga looks at her, a glint of hope in her sad eyes. Sif nods, although she is not sure if she can be of much help. “I know you too have noticed that Thor blames himself for the fall of his brother.” Another sigh. “I wish I knew a way to change it, but I cannot think of anything. That is why I am asking you to speak to him. Try and take his mind off things. Take him out for hunting. Help him forget his brother. Only for a bit.”

 

“I will try, your Majesty,” Sif says and stands up. Frigga only nods, lost in thought, mind miles away and with her sons. The Shieldmaiden has already taken a few steps when Frigga calls her back. “Please, Lady Sif, another thing.” Sif turns around and sees the Queen wringing her hands, searching for the right words. “Yes, your Majesty?”

 

“Thor. Has he spoken recently about the young woman he met on Midgard? Jane, if I remember correctly?”

 

Yes, Jane, that is her name. Young and beautiful, petite, brunette, with full lips and big, brown eyes. Sif remembers Thor kissing her, his strong arms around her thin waist, his lips on hers, the expression of happiness on their faces. The sincerity in his eyes when he told her he'd come back. 

 

Another thing Loki has taken from him.

 

“Not in the last few weeks.”

 

Frigga nods, slowly, her expression grave. “Thank you. I appreciate your help.” 

 

Sif cannot help the feeling there is more to this question than it might seem.

 

* * *

 

Lucas taps the calendar next to the date. Five months. Exactly five since he woke up in hospital, four and a week since he moved in with Rachel. He has a job now, a name, colleagues, a flatmate. A friend.

 

The word comes easily to him when he thinks of Rachel. She is understanding and kind, but not weak. Honest and open. Full of understanding. A tower of strength. She makes him smile, makes him feel safe. 

 

Safe from what? _I think something terrible happened to you._ The words are echoing through his mind, bouncing off the walls of his skull. Something terrible enough to let him forget everything about it, leaving an empty space and a hungry blackness in the part of his brain that normally holds memories.

 

He had been so sure he wanted to remember, but after what Rachel had said he is not that certain any more. What use is it to regain a memory so thoroughly gruesome his mind erased it. The only things left are his dreams, fantasy mixed up with the traces of his history. Absurd, twisted, ridiculous – and not only when it came to the clothes they're wearing. 

 

Lucas sighs and rubs his eyes. He will not go there. It won't turn out well for him, and he can't ask of Rachel to go and flutter her eyelashes at a paramedic again. He can't help the grin tugging at his lips. Picturing Rachel flirting was, well, strange. She went to great lengths to keep him out of hospital for a second time.

 

“You owe me,” she'd said. “There is no way I'll make mooneyes at Tim again. He has acne. Wait, that's not even barely enough to describe it. I swear, his face looks like a freaking crumble cake. But not the tasty ones. Ugh. I've got to get that image out of my mind. I'll never be able to eat that shit again.” She didn't stop her tirade for a long time.

 

Speaking of the devil, he hears the key being turned around in the lock. Rachel is nearly vanishing in her winter clothes, scarf pulled up to cover half of her face, her beanie slipped down over her forehead. “Heey,” she greets him while pulling the door closed behind her. 

 

“Hi,” he answers and walks towards her to give her a hug, but he stops himself when he sees the transport box in her hands. “Aaand what is this?” He points at the blanket-covered thing in her hands and receives a meow as an answer. “Did that thing just meow at me?”

 

Rachel chuckles and puts the box down to take off her cloak. “Yes, it did.” She reaches down and takes the blanket off the box, opens it and reaches inside, revealing the ugliest cat Lucas has ever seen. 

 

“That... is one _ugly_ beast,” he tells her, perking an eyebrow at her. “Hey!” She tries to hit him with one hand while pressing the cat to her chest with the other. 

 

“But it's true!” Lucas says, dodging her fist. The cat is mostly white, but there are black spots – blotches – on its fur. It's part of the pattern, but it makes it look rather dirty. One of its eyes is missing, apparently scratched out in a fight with another cat, judging by the scars around the empty eye socket. From the looks of it, the cat got in a lot of fights, both ears bear bite marks and the tail seems shorter than it should be. “He doesn't look that bad, don't be mean,” Rachel says and mocks a pout, the twitching of the corners of her mouth betraying her. 

 

“Actually, he reminded me a bit of you.” Lucas perks a brow questioningly. “He's been running around the hospital grounds for some time now, hissing at everyone but me.” Lucas chuckles deeply. “I don't hiss at people.”

 

“But you're not very nice to them either. Don't think I haven't noticed only because Celine hasn't.” There is mischievous amusement in her eyes. He loves her for that.

 

“Are you adopting strays now?” Lucas asks and follows her into the kitchen where she puts the tomcat down on the floor and produces a can of cat food from her bag. “Wouldn't be the first time,” she says with a wink and bumps his hip with hers. 

 

“Guess you have a point.”

 

* * *

 

Lucas leans back and enjoys the wine. Red, heavy, spicy. Just the right thing to end a nice evening. And to celebrate their new flatmate.

 

“How are we gonna call him?” Rachel asked when they were setting up the tom's litter box. Lucas scratched the back of his head. “What about Loki?”

 

“What?” Rachel looked at him incredulously, but there was something more in her eyes. “How the hell did you come up with that?” Lucas just shrugs and grabs the bag to fill more litter into the box. “I don't know, it just popped up in my mind.” 

 

Rachel looked at the box and spread the small grains with the help of a shovel, shooting him a quick side glance. “Well, okay. Loki it is then.”

 

After that they went out to have dinner and now they are sitting here, enjoying their wine and celebrating their friendship. 

 

“To five months,” Rachel says and clinks glasses with Lucas. Her smile is genuine, beautiful, and full of affection. “To a wonderful friend,” he answers and returns the smile. She reaches out and squeezes his hand, takes a sip from her wine. White, light, sweet.

 

There is a band playing on the small stage, a slow, sombre melody. Some couples are already dancing on the empty space serving as dance floor. “Do you want to dance?” Lucas asks and she nods. They join the others and Lucas takes her right hand in his left one, wrapping his arm around her waist. She leans her head against his chest and he buries his nose in the cloud of red curls, inhales the smell of citrus and disinfectant. 

 

“I can hear your heart,” Rachel murmurs after a while of slow dancing and he chuckles lowly. “That's because you're so small.”

 

“Hey, nothing against my height.” Her disapproval is mocked, he can hear the smile in her voice, feels her relaxed posture. His tower of strength. Warm and comforting.

 

He is contented, happy, relaxed, and it feels like there is something breaking and crumbling, a second skin coming off. There is no reason for him to hide any longer. It doesn't matter what he is hiding from. Not any more. He has a new life, a job, the best friend he could ever wish for. He is at peace.

 

Everything is all right.

 

* * *

 

Far away, in another galaxy, the Guardian of Worlds, the keeper of the Bifröst, directs his watchful gaze at the realm called Midgard. 

 

“Send for the crown prince,” Heimdall tells the guard. 

 

 


	4. Exciting Things For Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Frost Giant in the midst of the Æsir. A monster between saints.

_The Ancient Winters are calling out to him. He can hear them whisper in his mind, telling him of endless white plains, covered by a blanket of snow and ice, embracing the worlds with cold. The many voices inside it, more ancient than the oldest of the icy halls on Jötunheimr and at the same time as young as winter's first snow, sing a beautiful melody, reach out and touching his heart, answer questions long kept asked, filling the gaping holes inside him._

 

_When he touches the casket, it touches him as well. Icy tendrils, familiar in a confusing way, take a hold of his hands, his arms. The very soul of the Ancient Winters washes over him, surrounds him and leaves midnight blue skin in its wake. He feels it carving the skin of his face, covering it with the traditional scars of the Jötunn. It is unsettling how bared but at the same time utterly complete he feels. Everything is so clear to him, dragged out into the light for him to finally see._

 

_This is who he is._

 

_A Frost Giant in the midst of the_ _Æsir. A monster between saints._

 

_Monster. He wants to let go of the casket, but his hands won't cease to hold on to the feeling of understanding it offers him._

 

_Suddenly there is a hand on his left shoulder and he turns his head to see whom it belongs to. Green eyes, copper-blond curls, pink lips twisted into a fond smile. Rachel, oh, his Rachel. Wonderful, kind Rachel. Her hand is so warm on his skin, and he fears to see her fingers stained blue by frostbite. But nothing happens, the pink flesh stays the same, not overpowered by the sharp cold of his being._

 

_Her eyes stop to hold on to his and look at something, someone on his other side. He can feel another hand on his right shoulder, heavier than Rachel's delicate one. Turning his head slowly, he sees tanned, calloused and thick fingers resting on his shoulder._

 

_He knows whose hand it is. He knows which face he is going to see if he dares to look up. He knows which expression will be written all over it. Disgust. Loathing._

 

_The hand tightens around his shoulder, squeezes, and he prepares himself for the imminent pain, prepares himself for being whirled around and a hammer connecting with his face. But nothing happens._

 

_And what he sees in the blue eyes when he finally turns is not hatred, but fond acceptance._

 

_* * *_

 

Wakefulness comes slowly to him and it's a new experience. No jolting awake, no sweat-covered skin, no gasping and strangled sobs. The dream doesn't stay, but fades, little by little, the only thing left behind being a warm feeling inside his stomach.

 

When Lucas opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is the disfigured face of their new flatmate. Loki sits next to his head on the bed, staring at him with one unsettlingly intelligent grey eye.

 

“You could wake the dead with that face of yours.”

 

The tom twitches his whiskers in a somewhat disapproving manner, or maybe Lucas is just reading too much into it. It's just a cat, after all. He heaves himself off the bed, stretches until his joints pop and walks towards the door, feeling the piercing gaze of the cat following his every step through the room.

 

Lucas turns around and eyes the tomcat suspiciously. There is something to the beast that makes him feel scrutinized by it, but he pushes the feeling aside with a shrug.

 

“Come on, let's get you something to eat.” Loki jumps off the bed as if he understood what Lucas just said and ambles towards the open door. “Unless you feed on the souls of children or something,” Lucas adds, perking his eyebrow.

 

* * *

 

Thor tries to fight the hope taking over his heart, but to no avail. He does not want to be disappointed again, he cannot bear it any more. But hope is a part of his nature that cannot be denied. It is inside him, ever present, and he cannot crush it, neither with his mind, nor with his hammer. Not since he saw the silhouette of a messenger on the horizon, the horns on his helmet identifying him as a palace guard. A spark setting fire inside him.

 

Mjölnir is in his hand before he even realizes he closed his fingers around its handle. But before he can do as much as spin it, he feels a hand on his forearm, holding him back. Sif is at his side, and her fingers are a bit too tight around his arm to be comfortable. Her eyes are pleading him and it takes all his strength to return Mjölnir back to its place on his hip. His hands shake and he clenches them to fists to hide it.

 

There are only so few reasons the palace would send a messenger to them on their hunt, but there is only one reason he wishes it to be.

 

The messenger comes nearer, his horse is galloping towards them, but to Thor it looks like trotting. He wants to be through it, wants to hear the words spoken he longs for so much, wants to know his brother is alive, safe and sound.

 

He wants this whole ordeal to be over.

 

The Warriors Three come to stand behind him, and not one of them dares to say a word. Anticipation fills the air around them. It is hard to breathe, at least to Thor. The nearer the messenger comes, the bigger the pressure on his chest gets. A lump in his throat, suffocating, unable to be swallowed down.

 

_Please._

 

He wants the dreams visiting him at night to stop, he wants to bring Loki back, press him to his chest, feel him, smell him, hear his voice again, his words, sharp as a blade, the teasing remarks about Thor's wits.

 

The guard comes to halt in front of them, his horse dancing nervously around, breathing heavily, pressing hot air out of his nostrils audibly.

 

“Heimdall demands to see the Prince.”

 

* * *

 

Fields, trees, buildings. Everything rushes passed him, reduced to a colourful blur. The cold wind is cutting into his face, tugs at his clothes with pointy claws as if it wants to hold him back. But nothing can stop him now.

 

Heimdall has summoned him, and there is no doubt he has found Loki. The only question remaining is if his brother is still alive, or if his search has been all for nothing in the end.

 

No, he will not go there. Loki is alive, he knows it. He is too cunning to be dead. Loki finds a way, he always has, he always will. Now it is up to him to find a way to Loki.

 

Mjölnir pulls him along and the golden oceans of fields become fewer until their place is taken by the walls and towers of the city at the edge of the palace. Too slow for his liking the rainbow bridge comes in sight and his heart begins to pound fiercely against his ribcage.

 

Three figures stand at the shattered edge, Heimdall and Thor's parents. Father's arms tightly around his wife, her head buried in the crook of his neck. Thor hopes tears of delight are running down her face, and happiness are making her knees weak. Odin looks up and sees his son flying towards them, and he tells Frigga, because she lets go of him and hurries towards Thor, her hair undone and dancing in the wind, her steps lacking the usual grace. Let it be good tidings, Thor begs.

 

“Your brother,” Frigga says when he lands on the bridge, Mjölnir still in hand, its weight reassuring and comforting. She stumbles towards him and he catches her, presses her trembling form to his chest, and she tells him, interrupted by sobs,”Heimdall has found your brother.”

 

Her tears are good tears, her smile is one of utter joy. “He has found him, Thor.” Her shaking hand brushes over his cheek and he knows it would be damp from his own tears leaving wet trails on his face. The lump threatening to suffocate him slowly fades, and he feels a weight lifted from his chest, his heart. His father's heavy hand squeezes Thor's shoulder, and he wants to cry out in joy, wants to tell the world that his brother is still alive, that he will be found and brought back by Thor himself.

 

From behind him the sound of hooves comes nearer and he lets go of his mother, turns around and runs towards his friends, embraces everyone of them in a crushing hug and gets one in return from Volstagg that lifts him off his feet.

 

Everything will be all right.

 

* * *

 

Rachel stifles a yawn and shuffles drowsily towards the kitchen. Loki is already there, licking his mouth contentedly.

 

“Good morning,” Rachel greets him and he jumps on the counter, purring lowly and brushing her arm affectionately with his head. She lifts her hand and tickles him under the chin until he's had enough and jumps down again, strolling to somewhere out of her sight.

 

She smiles and turns towards the stove to make some coffee, only now noticing the already filled kettle standing on it. Lucas has prepared everything, and she can't help her heart swelling at the sight of it. It's touching how he cares for her. In the beginning he had done it to give her something back, but now it has become a routine of their life together. It feels good. Right. She never regretted taking Lucas in. Not only because he was nice and prepared coffee every morning, but because it was nice to not be alone any more, to have a friend living with her.

 

Her colleagues and friends had reacted similar to Lucas when she'd told them that she had offered her former patient to stay with her.

 

“Have you lost your mind?” her colleague Marion asked, face and voice oozing so much disbelieve it nearly seemed exaggerated. “Not recently,” Rachel answered and lighted her cigarette. She never really got along with Marion, because that woman was bragging whenever she opened her mouth. Rachel knew that her new living arrangement would be known by the whole hospital as soon as Marion's shift ended. But she didn't care about what people think, never had, and would never start to. Anyway, Lucas was not her patient any more, they could brag all they wanted.

 

Rachel hears something shatter from the direction of the living room, and when she enters it, she sees Loki sitting on the window sill, the flowerpot that normally stood there laying in pieces on the ground, earth spilled on the carpet. The tom doesn't look like he cares much about it. Bloody amazing.

 

“God of Mischief, huh?” Rachel asks with a look of reproach that doesn't feel as convincing as she had planned. “There couldn't have been a more fitting name for you.”

 

“But,” she tells him when she gets something to clean the mess up. “If you want to stay here, you will have to follow certain rules. And one of them is 'Everything stays where it is supposed to'. Understood?”

 

Loki only flicks his tail, staring at her with one eye that lacks any emotion. “Could you at least act as if you felt bad?” Rachel shakes her head and walks into the kitchen to dispose of the shattered pot, muttering, “Look at me, now I'm talking to a cat as if it actually could understand me. Soon they'll start to call me a crazy catlady.”

 

She chuckles and returns to the stove to finally prepare her daily dose of caffeine when she notices a piece of paper laying on the counter next to her coffee mug. A message from Lucas, written down in his neat and strong handwriting.

 

_Rachel,_ it says, _I fed the cat, but I think he would like to eat something more exiting, like infantile souls. Or tuna._

_I'm at the library, my shift ends at 4 pm. Hope you'll enjoy your day off._

_Feel free to cook something, but please something edible. I still dream of that Chop Suey you made. It leaves me screaming. See you later._

_Love,_

_Lucas_

 

Rachel snorts and sticks out her tongue to the letter. She can imagine Lucas smirking while writing this, but because he isn't here to see her reaction, the letter will have to suffice. And anyway, that Chop Suey hadn't been that bad. Okay, it had been, but he doesn't have to exaggerate. She had just been a bit too generous with the spices.

 

Her musings are interrupted by a knock – more a banging – at the door. “Geez, I'm coming,” she cries, but whoever feels the need to punch her door in doesn't seem to hear her, because the banging continues. Doorbells, she thinks, who the fuck doesn't use doorbells?

 

“I said I'm coming,” she says annoyed, and opens the door.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry this chapter turned out so short. I noticed that most of the chapters in this fic of mine are a bit short compared to the other fics. :/ 
> 
> Buuut, I already have most of the next chapter planned and some of it written down, and it looks like it will be longer. :>
> 
> Hope you're still enjoying this. ^^'


	5. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What the hell, man!?” the girl says and positions herself in the doorway, her shoulders straight, arms crossed over her chest.

 

“What. The. Fuck?!” the red-headed child in the doorway says, stressing every word, her eyes wide with disbelief upon their sight. 

 

Fandral believes that this choice of words is inappropriate for a child and over all a damsel, but it seems to match the situation. The mortal has not expected to see five gods in front of her door, the Æsir have not expected to find a girl her age standing in the doorway, since Heimdall said Loki is living with a woman. No child was mentioned. Clearly, this situation needs someone to untangle it.

 

Fandral clears his throat, and the girl stops scrutinizing Thor to look at him. Her eyes are sharp, nearly piercing, bright, intense, and Fandral is taken aback for a moment. She cocks her head slightly, one of her brows arched, as if she's prompting him to speak. Her hair a wild cluster of curls, her skin the colour of ivory, only interrupted by faint freckles and rosy cheeks. She will grow to be a fair woman, he is certain.

 

He clears his throat again and opens his mouth to speak, but he is interrupted by Thor, who seems to have regained his wits. 

 

“Where is he?” Thor growls, intimidating, and moves to push past her, but Fandral is quick to hold him back, and receives an angry glance of him in return. 

 

“What the hell, man!?” the girl says and positions herself in the doorway, her shoulders straight, arms crossed over her chest. Combined with her short height, the attempt of looking daunting to them is more a failure than a success. Her eyes are as sharp as daggers, though. “Fuck off, or I'll call the police and let them carry you off to crazy town.” She steps back to close the door, but Fandral puts his foot in the doorway to stop her from following through with her plan. In hindsight, he will be able to say that this was not his best idea so far, because the girl is stronger than her appearance lets one assume. The door comes down on his foot, and he curses nearly as colourful as the girl, but at least he has the decency to do it quietly.

 

She pulls the door back, determination and challenge in her eyes, and he can tell she is going to smash it against his foot again if he does not take it out of her way. He prepares himself for another wave of pain, but Sif's hand stops the door before he has to hear the unsettling crack again. 

 

“Please,” Sif says. “Hear us out first. If you still want us to leave afterwards, we will.” The two have a silent battle, fought with gazes instead of weapons. After a time that felt like an eternity, the girl opens the door wide enough for them to enter. “Okay... Okay. But when I say you leave, _you leave_. Or I _will_ call the police. That's a promise.” Her index finger is stabbing the air between them to underline her point.

 

Then she turns around and struts off. They exchange glances, unsure if she just invited them in. Thor takes the first step inside, and his friends slowly follow. 

 

“And close the freaking door! I don't want to find any more lunatics in my flat.”

 

The girl appears again, but Fandral cannot call her such any longer. She has exchanged her night gown for tight trousers and a blouse, both pieces of clothes stretching around the very mature, soft curves of her body. She _is_ a fair woman, he corrects himself.

 

“Well, were are our manners? We should introduce ourselves.” He takes a step towards her, taking a small hand in his to lift it to his lips, but she pulls it away, her expression one of amused disbelief. That did not went so well, he thinks, but his attempts are utterly destroyed by Thor.

 

“Tell us where he is!” 

 

Volstagg and Hogun are next to him, both of them having a hand on his shoulders to hold him back from pouncing on her, physically or verbally.

 

The woman seems unaffected, and Fandral has to give her credit for that. Thor can be ferocious, especially when he is angry, and now he certainly is.

 

“Wow. You should keep him on a leash and drag him to anger management or something, he sure needs some.”

 

Thor is snarling, but before he can say anything else, the woman continues, “You're not one for diplomacy, I can see that. But if you want to find out _anything_ about whoever you're looking for, you should pull yourself together and behave like an adult. Now,” she gives him a smile that does not quite reach her eyes. “Who wants some coffee?”

 

* * *

 

Rachel knows who the blond guy is. And she knows who they're looking for, but she won't tell them anything before they had a good talk with her. Then she'll decide.

 

For now, she's making coffee, buying herself time. Her hands are shaking, only slightly. She doesn't know what these guys are capable of, doesn't know what they did to Lucas, if they did something to him, that is. She can't be sure about it, but Lucas'... brother or whatever he is, surely has a temperament that needs to be tamed.

 

When she goes back into the living room, they are still standing around, unsure about what to do with themselves. The blond is pacing around the room, like an animal trapped in a cage, his posture tense, his expression restless. Rachel sets the tray down on the living room table and gestures towards the chairs. “Come on, sit down and take a cup.”

 

They move slowly, cautiously, as if they are afraid of scaring her away. Well, they look the part. Threatening, intimidating, covered in armour, various kinds of weapons dangling from their hips, muscular arms bearing old scars. But she has to be strong, and she will be. For Lucas' sake. The woman and the three guys sit down, the blond remains standing, but at least he takes one of the mugs, throws his head back and drowns it in one go. The others are just nursing their coffees, pushing the cups around, and staring into the black liquid.

 

The guy with the silly moustache clears his throat again. He does that a lot. Who the hell still has moustaches like this? He looks like he is the biggest fan of these awful Three Musketeers films. 

 

“Fandral,” he introduces himself with a smile of which he surely thinks is stunning and dazzling, but she lets it ricochet off herself with the help of a perked eyebrow. His smile crumbles and slowly fades. “Lady Sif, Volstagg, Hogun,” he quickly continues and points at everyone in turn. “And Thor.”

 

Thor. The God of Thunder, name giver to Thursday – Thor's day. Brother to Loki. At least in the myths. But this is the real life, no myths, no Norse gods, just freaks dressing up as them. “Thor, huh?” she asks and takes a sip of her coffee. “You don't have a god complex or anything?” 

 

The big guy, Volstagg, snorts and starts coughing. Apparently he has choked on the coffee, and Lady Sif reaches out to pound his back. 

 

“ _Enough!_ ” Spit is spraying from Thor's mouth, and Rachel has a hard time not to flinch over his sudden outburst. The others are jumping to their feet, and one of the chairs clatters to the ground. “ _Where_ is my brother?!” 

 

“Thor--” Sif begins, but is interrupted by Thor's angry glare.

 

“I've had enough. I did not travel here to spend my time drinking coffee. Tell me now, woman--”

 

A hiss, the sound of shattering porcelain, a high-pitched growl, a small shadow and an angry gasp of pain. She's never loved her cat more than now. Loki has pounced on Thor, scratching at his face, actually drawing blood, hissing and growling the whole time at the broad shouldered and muscular man. The smallest thing in the room just picked a fight with the most scary. The scene is fucking ridiculous. 

 

“What in the nine realms...?!” Thor finally gets a hold of the tomcat and keeps him at arm's length, his hands a bit too tight around Loki's squirming form for Rachel's liking.

 

“Keep your hands off my cat,” she tells him sternly and rescues the little monster before the blond can accidentally break his neck. Then she takes Loki in her arms and presses him to her chest, quietly whispering, “Good job, Love.” He immediately stops struggling, but he keeps on watching flabbergasted Thor attentively. 

 

“Then keep your beast away from me,” Thor counters with a snarl.

 

“He has a name, you know. He is no beast.” She turns away, fondly ruffling the cat's fur. “You're a good cat, aren't you, Loki?”

 

There is the sound of breaking porcelain from behind her again, and she whirls around to ask them why the hell they hate her tea service, but she stops before so much as a single letter can exit her mouth. They all look at her, wide-eyed and with mouths hanging open. “What--?”

 

“Witch! What have you _done_ to him?!” Thor's expression is one of utter shock and discomposure, and matching those of his friends. Rachel can only stammer incoherent things. “Loki!” Thor reaches out to take the cat from her, his voice reduced to a strangled sob, and Loki hisses at him.

 

“What have you done to him?!” Thor repeats, desperately eyeing the cat, studying his numberless battle scars and the empty eye socket. 

 

“What the hell is wrong with you? It's just a freaking cat!” This whole thing is ridiculous. She should have closed the door when she still had the chance to. Now she was trapped in a room with crazy medieval reenactors thinking she transformed a man into a cat. This day can't possibly get any more insane. She would have laughed if she wasn't completely and utterly flabbergasted.

 

“Just a cat?!” Thor growls, baring his teeth, and she takes a cautious step back. “Yes. Just. A. God-damn. Cat!” He looks like he's ready to pounce on her every second, his posture tense and his fingers dangerously close to the handle of his hammer. Its head is so big that she can't help but wonder if he's trying to compensate for something-- _but this is not the right time_ , definitely not, and she should focus on the man threatening to kill her because he thinks she did some really fucked-up stuff to his brother. Right.

 

“Loki is dead.” And fuck, that came out completely wrong, but she got herself into it, she's going to end it. “What do you mean, woman?! Did you kill him?” He comes closer, too close, and now his friends don't stop him, too taken aback by the whole thing to care, or even wonder if Thor is right in his assumption.

 

“Oh no, I didn't do it.” He still doesn't stop coming closer, and she takes another step back, Loki tensing in her arms, ready to defend her. But he won't have to. Not when she's dropping the bombshell.

 

“You did it.”

 

And there it is. Bullseye. 

 

His snarl is already crumbling, and the tenseness fades, leaving Thor slightly hunched. She can't stop now, she has to push further.

 

“Your Loki died when his _brother_ ,” she spits the word at him, her tone as sharp as a blade, and Thor flinches in her reproachful and unforgiving gaze, “let him down. There is no Loki any more, only _Lucas_.”

 

She sets the cat down on her armchair and takes a photo of Lucas and her from the bookshelf next to her, waves it around in front of his face. She likes that photo. It was taken on the wedding of a friend of hers. They are all dressed up, Loki in a nice black suit and a dark green silk shirt, the buttons on the collar open. But the most important thing is that he's smiling on the picture. Genuinely and happily.

 

“Lucas, my friend, my ex-patient, who's lost his memory because of the shit he's gone through, because his mind decided it wasn't able of coping with it all any longer. Lucas, who was found without clothes or anything to identify him in a dirty alley in Berlin, and who still can smile despite all these fucked-up things.”

 

She shoves the photo into his face, and he takes it with shaking hands, touches the glass as if he means to caress the face right beneath it. His knees aren't strong enough to carry his weight any more, and he sinks to the ground. He looks miserable, all pale and worn-out. Rachel almost pities him. Almost. 

 

Sif's glare for her is an angry one, but she doesn't care if the woman thinks she's been cruel to Thor. Someone had to say it. He wanted answers, he got them, even if he doesn't like them. 

 

“So, he lost his memories?” Volstagg finally says, attempting to break the uncomfortable silence dominating the room. “Yes.” She is thankful for the distraction, and hurries to steer the conversation to familiar grounds. “The brain sometimes does that, when _things_ happen. Some people lose their minds. Others their memory. In Lucas' case it was the latter.”

 

She thinks back to the day when she'd had a similar conversation with Lucas. She remembers the fear in his eyes, the confusion, the bewilderment. The pain.

 

“And how would you know Loki is not playing with you? He is a trickster, a liesmith, you would not be the first falling for it,” Sif says with a smug tone to her voice that makes Rachel itch with the urge to sic her cat on the woman.

 

“Because I am a nurse,” Rachel snaps at her. “I work on a neurological station, I see something like this every day. I think I know more about a headache than you, even though you seem to be the type that inflicts them on everyone around you on a regular basis.”

 

Sif squints her eyes, but from behind her Volstagg lifts his brows and tips his head in what looks like amused appreciation. “I did not come here to listen to the sharp tongue of a woman that is not able to tell when she has overstepped a bond.”

 

“Oh, come on--”

 

“Enough!” Thor has pulled himself up with the help of the armchair. Now he's sitting in it, slumped, and tries to regain his composure. Rachel does him the favour and shuts up. For now.

 

“Tell me,...” he looks up and at her, asking for her name. “Rachel,” she helps out. Thor nods, and his eyes drop to the photo in his lap.

 

“Tell me, Rachel,” he repeats, but his voice fails him, so he clears his throat and blinks. Now she's definitely pitying him. “How is he?”

 

Rachel shrugs. “He's fine.”

 

“No, that is not what I meant, although I am glad to hear this. What I mean is, _how_ is he.” He looks up again, his eyes pleading.

 

“He is kind,” Rachel begins and walks over to him, sits down on the edge of the coffee table. “To me at least.” She can't help the smile twisting her lips. “He mostly behaves in public, but he has this special way to act around people he doesn't like. Like Celine from his work--”

 

“Where does he work?”

 

“In a library. He says he likes the smell of books. Says it makes him feel at home. Sometimes he even sticks his nose into a book and just inhales, eyes closed, and I can see his mind is miles away.”

 

Thor nods, his mind also miles away, with his brother probably. His eyes are glazed when he tells her, “Yes, he spent most of his time in the library of the palace. Reading books and practising his spells all day long.”

 

“Wait, wait, wait, wait. _Wait_. Spells?! What the fuck are you talking about?!” Something is really _not_ right with these guys. Rachel pinches the bridge of her nose, because this is nearly too much to handle. She can only hope Thor is talking about party tricks, and not of actual magic.

 

“I am talking about Seiðr, or magic as it is called on Midgard,” Thor says with a understanding smile, as if she was a little kid that needed to be taught about life and its wonders.

 

“What in the name of Jesus fucking Christ is _wrong_ with you guys?” She jumps up and walks through the room, leans against the window sill and crosses her arms over her chest. “You're talking like magic exists, dress up like you're celebrating a medieval Halloween, and you name yourselves after freaking _Gods_!”

 

“We _are_ Gods.” Sif says, and Rachel rolls her eyes. “You're crazy, that's what you are. There is no such thing as Norse Gods. Grow the fuck up.”

 

“Watch your tongue!”

 

“Sif,” Thor pleads, and she closes her mouth and settles with drawing her brows together in an angry glower. 

 

Rachel walks over to her backpack and takes a book out of it, flicks through the pages until she finds what she's looking for. The pale face of Loki is smirking at her mischievously. He is ugly; thin lips, sharp cheekbones, violet rings around his eyes, oily hair, beaked nose.

 

“ _Loki was not liked by most of the Asgardians,_ ” Rachel reads for them to hear.“ _For he was a trickster and a liesmith. His skills in diplomacy and manipulation were without equal, but out of fear of these and his magic, he was looked down upon by the other gods._ ”

 

She shuts the book and throws it at Thor, who barely catches it. “Read it. It's very enlightening.” Her voice is oozing sarcasm. “And if you chose your names for a reason, then Lucas' former life couldn't have been a nice one.”

 

“He still had friends,” Thor says in his defence, but his voice carries too much uncertainty to be convincing. 

 

“Who? These guys?” She gestures towards the others in a wide arch. “The Musketeer over here? Or Mister Glower? Lady Tomboy?” Fandral absently strokes his moustache and mouths the word musketeer, Hogun, on the other hand seems unaffected by his new nick name. Sif seems to have no clue what tomboy means.

 

“Yes!”

 

“Tell you what! It's written all over their faces that they don't care as much about Lucas as about you!”

 

Thor looks around, but his friends avert their gazes as if everything else in the room is far more interesting than the hurt blue eyes searching for a proof that Rachel is wrong. He is left disappointed.

 

“But he has me.” His voice is quiet and soft, nearly inaudible.

 

“Had,” she corrects him. “Until you let him down. And he woke up in Berlin without any memories whatsoever.” He flinches as if she's just hit him, but she's merciless, unforgiving, because he deserves everything of it for what he's done. 

 

“Now, he has _me_. He has a new life. He can smile... Tell me, Thor,” she stares at him intently. “Did you ever think about the possibility that he _doesn't_ want to go back?”

 


	6. This is the End, My only Friend, The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone, even Rachel, is holding their breath when the door finally, and painfully slowly opens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from The Doors - The End

 

 

Lucas looks at the photo standing on his desk. It is the same one Rachel and he have standing in their living room, a picture that was taken on one of her friends' wedding. Abby was her name, if he remembers correctly.

 

It had been a nice, sunny day one month after he had moved in with Rachel. They had laughed a lot. And everybody had mistaken them for a couple, what had caused Rachel to blush pretty much, to the extend that he had teased her about looking like a tomato. He still remembers the sharp pain her elbows had caused when she had nudged them into his ribs. She is stronger than she looks, he'd learned that day.

 

He leans in and takes the photo, looks at it for a bit, lost in thoughts of that day. Rachel, his Rachel. A small whirlwind, loud mouthed and straightforward, but still delightfully surprising in some occasions. He doesn't know what he would've done without her. Not only because she'd offered him a nice home, and had helped him with finding a job, but because she is always there for him to listen when he needs to talk about something, because she would never push, and because she offers stability. Over the time of a few months she has become an important constant in his life he doesn't want to miss. 

 

He isn't delusional, he knows that the chance of them living together forever is small. It's only a matter of time until one of them finds a partner they want to stay with, settle down, maybe marry and start a family. It would be normal. He would never deny her that, as well as she wouldn't do it in his case.

 

But they could stay friends. No, they _will_ stay friends. He is sure about that. Even if he should regain his memory and find his family, she would be there, next to him, taking his hand into hers and squeeze it reassuringly.

 

Because Rachel is home. She is safety. She is friend and family in one person. With her he could walk through the fires of hell. He could find his past.

 

But does he want to? 

 

Lucas looks at the photo, at the way they're both smiling back at him. He has his arm around her shoulders, and her head rests against his chest. An image of genuine happiness.

 

Rachel has given him so much that he doesn't need anything else. The blanks in his mind don't need to be filled any more. Not with his past at least. 

 

He will get new memories, new happy moments he can save in his mind inside a file labelled _Rachel & me_.

 

So much lays in front of him. In front of them. He can't wait for it to be discovered.

 

Lucas puts the photo back on its place next to his computer screen. His shift is nearly over, and he starts to pack his things, but when he takes his phone, it starts chiming for attention in his hand.

 

 _Rachel_ , says the display, and she is smiling up at him from the display, a cup of coffee in hand. It makes him smile back.

 

“I was just thinking of you,” he says with the smile audible in his voice for a greeting when he picks up.

 

“Did you?” He doesn't like the sound of her voice. It is meant to sound carefree, but there is a nervous tone to it he doesn't like. “Everything all right, Rachel?”

 

“Yes.” A pause, her silence heavy with an uncertainty uncommon for his Rachel. “Well, no, not really,” she admits then.

 

“Did something happen? Are you all right?” He hurries to pack the rest of his stuff, suddenly feeling uneasy and concerned. “Are you hurt?”

 

“No, no, I'm all right.” He can't help the sigh of relief, but his feet don't cease their hurried pace through the wide corridors of the library, his footsteps offensively loud in the quietness of them. Heads turn towards him, and he feels angry gazes on his back, but chooses to ignore them. Nevertheless, he continued to talk only in a whisper. “What's going on, Rachel, you're not telling me everything, I can hear it.”

 

Her laugh is a defeated snort. “Yes you're right.” But she's still hesitant to tell him. “I just wanted to warn you, so you won't freak out when you come home, because... you have visitors.” Her voice lifts a bit at the last word, more a question than a statement.

 

“Visitors?” The word leaves a strange taste behind, _feels_ strange. His hands are shaking, he needs some air. The air in the library is too thick, too heavy, tastes of dust and the past, musty, suffocating. The library is a place of the past, it's there, everywhere, whispering to him, from the pages into his mind. Out. He needs to get out, get some air, feel the cold wind on his skin. Needs to breathe again.

 

“Lucas?” Rachel sounds concerned, and he hears her mutter, “For fucks sake! I should've kept my damn mouth shut.”

 

“I'm still here,” he tells her, his voice breathless, weak.

 

He pushes the door open, and finally, there is room to breathe, the wind caressing his skin, his soul with its reassuring coldness. His breath is leaving his mouth in small clouds of mist. 

 

“Are you--”

 

“Yes, yes, I'm all right, no need to worry, Rachel. I'm on my way.”

 

“Okay. Just, don't freak out, okay? And remember, I'm here.”

 

“I know,” he says and ends the call. “I know.”

 

* * *

 

The woman lets her hand sink and touches the surface of the small device shortly with one finger, then it vanishes into her pocket again. Fandral is left amazed over the magic of this realm. In Asgard, one has to send a messenger to reach someone far away from them, but here, on Midgard, such a small device seems to be enough. He had thought of this realm as a primitive one, lacking the simplest of magic, but as it turns out, Midgardians use their very own form of it. 

 

“He is on his way,” she informs them, her voice shaky. He prefers her stubbornness, it suits her better than the expression of concern that has gotten a hold of her face. Her hands are shaking, he notices, as he watches her taking the cup again. His eyes flicker over to Thor, who's smile is a mixture of anticipation, hope, nervousness and anxiety, hands so tightly around Mjölnir's handle his knuckles turn white. The silence in the room is filled with nervous energy and foreboding. They do not know how Loki will react when he sees them. If it is Loki they will find opening the door, not someone else. Someone who is Rachel's friend. Someone called Lucas. Fandral is left hoping for the best.

 

“Thank you, Lady Rachel,” he finally says to break the heavy silence between them all.

 

Her head jerks up, and he realizes he had ripped her out of her musings. First, she looks baffled, then her expression changes; her eyes squint and her brows furrow, a line appearing between them. Her voice is so cold that he can feel the hairs on his arm standing on end. “Don't thank me. Because if you hurt him, you should start praying to your gods.”

 

Sif snorts, but it comes late, her hesitancy betraying her attempt of ridicule. Fandral, on the other hand, is able to recognize an honest promise. In terms of bodily strength she might be inferior to them, but willpower can turn the most delicate maiden into a fierce warrior. He nods slowly. “Understood. But be assured, we have no intention of harming your friend in any way.”

 

“If Loki is not trying to hurt us first,” Sif murmurs quietly, but Rachel seems to have the ears of a lynx. And its temper. 

 

“Oi, shut it Tomboy! It's not Lucas' fault Mister CalvinKlein model here has no eyes for you.” Only because she gestures towards Thor it is clear to them who she meant with that strange name. Fandral exchanges quick glances with his companions behind Sif's back, and sinks deeper into his chair, preparing himself for the imminent – how do they call it here on Midgard? – catfight. And Sif does look ready to pounce on Rachel; her stance is tense, her eyes narrowed, hands balled to fists. Rachel, has crossed her arms over her chest, her head tipped to the side, eyebrows drawn up in a taunting manner.

 

“I already told you to watch your tongue, woman! I hope for your own good that you were not implying that I harbour feelings for one of my most dearest--”

 

“Oh, blow me,” Rachel interrupts Sif, rolling her eyes, and Fandral is convinced that this expression, however unfamiliar, is not a nice one. “Don't be so full of yourself! I don't care what you feel for _anyone_ in this room, but I do care about the way you talk about my best friend-- how you describe him and how you look whenever someone says his name. What the hell did he do that you feel like you have to be such a bitch?” 

 

The fierceness vanishes from Sif's face, and she even ignores the insult. She takes a step back, and her shoulders slump a bit, eyes dropping to the floor. Fandral shifts his weight uneasily in his armchair, all too aware of the sombre silence laying heavily on the room. It is not up to Sif or the Warriors Three to speak of Loki's deeds. This tale is Thor's to tell. They look at him, see him swallow uncomfortably, his thumb strokes Mjölnir's handle thoughtfully as if he needs to feel its reassuring presence to find the strength and talk.

 

And so he does, hesitantly, voice weak and wavering. He starts at the very beginning, with the babe that was found alone on the steps of a temple in a besieged city, in the lands of never ending winter. A Jötunn raised as prince of Asgard, wrapped in a spell so no one would know his true heritage. Thor's eyes glint with feelings of adoration and brotherly love when he talks of their time together as brothers, the tricks Loki knew to play, his talent in magic and the ways he could use his words as surely as a weapon, often painfully stabbing, at other times, though rarely, like a balm to a fresh wound. But Asgard is a realm of the power of muscles and men, of wars fought with the blunt force of weapons instead of diplomacy. Most of the time at least. 

 

There is anger and regret in Thor's voice when he tells of the suspicion and distaste most of the Asgardians felt towards his brother, but most of it is directed at himself. Fandral can see it in the way his shoulders are slumped as if they were carrying a heavy, invisible burden around that was pressing down on him endlessly and unforgiving. Thor blames himself for Loki's fate, for the jealousy and envy that had been gnawing on Loki's mind and poisoned it with insanity, slowly, with every step Thor took towards the Throne and into the hearts of the Æsir. 

 

“Equality, that is what Loki sought,” Thor says, bitterness in his voice, his expression one of pain. “And I did not see it, too occupied as I was with my own pride.”

 

“You could not have known what would happen,” Fandral says in an attempt to lessen his friend's suffering, because he can feel Thor's pain when he looks at the way his head is lowered, the lines of worry carved into his face, the back that is usually straightened with pride and self-confidence slowly bending beneath the weight of self-blame and guilt. 

 

But upon Fandral's words Thor's head jerks up, and his shoulders straighten again – not with confidence but with anger, and Fandral sinks as deep into the armchair as he is capable of, immediately regretting that he was not born with a talent for magic, because now he wishes he could disappear. “I could have known,” Thor growls, his fingers digging into the armrests as he leans forward, towards Fandrals squirming-- no, not squirming, Fandral does not squirm, he merely sinks back into the chair as to not tempt Thor's anger more. But there is no reason to, because the wave of boiling feelings disappears as quickly as it had appeared, and Thor seems to slump down again. 

 

“I _should_ have known.” His voice is barely above a whisper, strangled by grief. “Maybe I could have stopped him.”

 

“Stopped him from what?” Thor flinches at the sound of Rachel's voice as if he had forgotten that she was present, and that he had indeed meant to tell the events to her. He looks up, and Fandral follows his gaze, sees her leaning against the table, her arms crossed over her chest, something small, thin and white between her fingers. There is a trail of smoke coming from the glowing tip of the white stick and the warrior watches as she brings the other end of it to her lips and sucks on it. She breathes smoke from her mouth like a dragon before she asks again, “Stop him from doing what?”

 

There is a pause, filled with fear of the word, of it's bitter taste, of the impact it leaves behind. Fandral's eyes flicker over to Thor, who is grinding his teeth in an attempt to crush the syllables between them, for when they are spoken it feels like it is set in stone. 

 

“Betrayal,” Volstagg finally says, and Fandral lets go of the breath he was holding. 

 

“He lied to Thor when he was banished from Asgard,” Sif goes on, but her tone is neutral, lacking all traces of grudge she feels towards Loki. “Told him their father was dead and Thor was never to return to his home and rightful place amongst us.” She had walked over to Thor's side and now puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezes it.

 

“He tricked Laufey into believing he could finally have his revenge on Odin Allfather, but then killed him,” Hogun continues in Thor's stead, and Rachel looks at him, one eye-brow raised in disbelieving amusement since he had been silent the whole time they had been here. “But Laufey alone was not enough, and he went on to the Bifröst, using the bridge's power in an attempt to destroy Jötunheimr.” 

 

“And he tried killing Thor as well.” Fandral shoots daggers with his eyes towards Volstagg, who shrugs and continues stuffing his face with cookies he had produced from Odin-knows-where. “But as you can see, he did not succeed, and Thor returned and stopped him from destroying the Frost Giants' realm completely. Then,... he fell,” Fandral ends the sorrowful tale and they all fall silent again, the long exhales of Rachel the only sound. Even Volstagg had stopped eating for a short while.

 

Rachel is not looking at them, but follows the twirling movements of the smoke she blows from her lungs with her eyes, biting her lips while she is lost in thought. The small white stick slowly burns to its end and she crushes the ember in a small plate filled with ash and more remains of the glowing sticks. Then she sighs and rubs her temples, her eyes closed. “I can't believe you.”

 

“I know this is hard to believe for a Midgardian.” Thor is sympathetic, it is not his first encounter with a human and their simple ways of denying things that they had not come to see yet. 

 

“No, you don't understand, _Thor_.” His name is spoken with a sharp sound to it, and there is uncertainty, confusion and disbelief glinting in her eyes. “You are speaking of magic and gods, and... and... giants and--” She throws her arms up in the air in exasperation. “ _Rainbow Bridges_ between worlds. It is _insane_. It is against everything I believe in, everything I know. Against the laws of science. I just can't--”

 

She is interrupted by the sound of a key turning in a lock. Thor jumps immediately to his feet, his posture tense, his jaw set, and his eyes fixated on the door.

 

Everyone, even Rachel, is holding their breath when the door finally, and painfully slowly opens.

 

***

 

With every new thing Thor talks about, Rachel questions his sanity more. Magic. Giants. Norse Gods being alive. It was ridiculous. 

 

Her coffee has already gone cold, so she exchanges it for a cigarette, desperately needing something to do with her hands, to stop them from shaking. These people are not right in their heads. She has a hard time trying not to snort a disbelieving laughter.Rainbow Bridges!

 

 _Rainbow Bridges._ A bridge between worlds, Bifröst. 

 

“--and Thor returned and stopped him from destroying the Frost Giants' realm completely,” Fandral says and she pricks up her ears. 

 

'We were fighting on a bridge gleaming in all the colours of the rainbow.' That is what Lucas had told her the first time he talked about his dreams. 'The blond man-- my brother, he wanted to stop me from... from destroying... _something._ ' Jötunheimr.

 

The words echo in her mind, bounce of her skull. It can't be true. No it can't-- this is crazy, there is no such thing as Norse Gods. No Odin Allfather, no Asgard, no Thor... No Loki.

 

And still they are sitting here, claiming they are gods from another world, here to rescue one of their own. To bring him back to their home. This here is serious insanity, but she can't tell any more if it is they who are insane, or if she had lost her mind in the last hour or so since they had been standing in front of her door. Maybe insanity _was_ contagious after all...

 

“Against the laws of science. I can't--” she stops immediately when she hears the familiar sound of a key turning in a lock. For a moment, time slows down, and Rachel turns towards the door. She fears what is about to happen, fears for Lucas, because she doesnot know _what exactly is_ going to happen. What they will do, what Thor will do when he thinks he has found his brother, what Lucas will do. What it will do to him, to his mind.

 

What is _she_ herself supposed to _do_?!

 

For now she is just standing there, rooted to the very spot, her eyes wide and locked at the slowly opening door. She watches as it gives way to Lucas standing there, in the door frame, his hand still on the handle, the other clinging to the keys he's holding as if they could help him through this. 

 

For the time of a heart beat, nobody is moving. 

 

Then time returns to its usual pace, and Rachel sees Lucas blinking in disbelieve, scrutinizing the visitors until his eyes find the blond man standing in the middle of the room, frozen in his steps. Something flashes up in Lucas eyes, something like recognition--

 

“Brother!” Thor's voice is a strangled sob composed of too many feelings; delight, pain, sorrow, pure joy, relief. It is too much, and he moves forward and in an instant he is in front of Lucas, and Rachel jumps, because she doesn't know what else to do, because it is all too much and she doesn't want her friend to get hurt, and _please don't hurt him._

 

And then Thor's muscular arms close around Lucas' slender form and he presses him to his broad chest, one hand caught in the long black strands of hair. The blond buries his face in the crook of his brother's (or not brother's – Rachel doesn't know what's right and what's wrong any more) neck, and she can see that he inhales deeply, murmuring something that's muffled by the skin and hair, so all she hears is the deep voice of the man, and in all this craze she is reminded of a purring cat. Lucas seems to be as helpless as herself, because he just stands her, dumbstruck, his face pressed against this blond man's shoulder so that she can only see his eyes, opened wide. All in all he looks too overwhelmed to do anything.

 

Then his arms move, and Rachel thinks for a second he's going to push the taller man away, but they hesitantly come to a rest on Thor's sides, grip the red fabric of the ridiculous red cape. Slowly, Lucas' eyes close and his features relax.

 

Rachel lets go of the breath she has been holding for far too long, and there is a heavy weight lifting off her heart. Maybe everything will be all right...

 

Thor slowly, carefully, as if he fears his brother would disappear again if he moved too fast or hastily, leans back and takes Lucas' face in both hands, looks him over for any harm, softly caressing the pale skin with his thumbs. “Brother,” he says again, whispers it to him in a way that tells Rachel the blond man had been waiting a long time for this. There are tears rolling down the sides of his face and the nurse feels like she is invading an intimate moment between the two brothers, standing face to face, eye in eye. Thor's hands slide down to the sides of Lucas' neck, but his thumbs don't stop stroking his face softly, exploring something he had missed for so long. They draw along his jawline up to his earlobe, and in the back of Rachel's head there is a small voice asking if this might still be considered appropriate for brothers, even if they hadn't seen each other in a long time.

 

Lucas slowly lifts his shaking hand until it closes around the wrist of his brother, never letting go of the other's eyes with his own, and Rachel can't fight down the hope blooming in her stomach. Maybe everything will be all right.

 

“Thor.” He says the name slowly, as if it was a word in a language he had long forgotten, his mouth forming the syllable with uncertainty. Thor gasps when he hears his name, and there are unshed tears glinting in Lucas' eyes. A strangled sob escapes his lips, and he lets his head sink, leans in until his forehead rests against his brother's chest, and more sobs follow. A tanned hand strokes over black hair, trying to comfort. “Everything is all right, Loki, everything is all right.” It is a mantra repeated by the blond man, for the sake of his brother, and for his own. 

 

But the sobs do not stop. The trembling does not cease, and Rachel sees the way Lucas' grip around Thor's wrist tightens, how his knuckles turn white, and she knows, she knows what is happening.

 

“GET AWAY FROM HIM!” she screeches and jumps towards the two men.

 

***

 

Brother. He had called him Brother. Lucas knows this man, he had seen him in his dreams. Blond and strong and usually proud, but then hanging over the edge of the shattered bridge, holding the staff to which his brother clung for dear life. 

  
“Thor.” That is his name, he knows it. Thor Odinson. And Loki, that is his. Loki Odinson.

 

No. That isn't right. No, not Odinson. 

 

 _Laufeyson_. A voice in his mind whispers, a cruel hiss. _Laufeyson, Frost Giant, child of winter._

 

Slowly, the door in the back of his mind opens with a creak that sets his teeth on edge, and images pour out, fill his mind – two boys running along hand in hand through vast halls, laughter, blond hair, black hair, a mirror image of himself but without a mirror to exist, moving on its own, fire licking on his hands, but he feels no pain, again laughter, but this time he does not laugh with them, a ballad he sings to the blond boy, a broad back turned towards him, the pain, the pang inside him and then wrath, burning hotter than fire consuming, too much, too much too much... 

 

No air. Can't breathe. Too much. 

 

A high-pitched scream. _Rachel_. More screaming, a name. Lucas.

 

Then darkness.

 

***

 

Thor startles when he hears the woman scream, and she is at his side in an instant, tries to push him away from his brother, fingers scratching over metal in search for leverage. “Get away from him!” she says again, and he does not understand. Why? He has finally found his brother again, had felt his skin that was cold compared to his own, had smelled the dust of old books, of magic that was Loki. Why would she want to take this – take _him_ away from Thor?

 

Suddenly she is lifted up and dragged away, and she screams and squirms and scratches and bites, but Fandral doesn't loosen his grip around her waist.

 

“Let go of me! LUCAS! Let go, you--! _I NEED TO HELP HIM!_ ”

 

And then Thor sees it. Notices that Loki hasn't stopped shaking, that he is not sobbing, but gasping for air, that the grip around his wrist weakens, and then his brother collapses in a heap. Thor sinks to his knees and manages to catch him before his head can hit the floor, but what he sees when he turns his brother around fills him with dread. Loki is as pale as if he is with sickness, beads of cold sweat on his forehead and running down his temples into his hair, his eyes squeezed shut and his teeth grinding fiercely, his face a grimace of pain. “Loki,” Thor gasps, and shakes him softly. “Loki, open your eyes. Loki, please.”

 

A small hand appears in his line of sight, and there is the Midgard woman, kneeling opposite of him, her hand coming to a halt on Loki's forehead. Fandral must have let go of her when they saw Loki falling to the ground. Thor wants to shove her away, what good could she do? But then he sees her face, the determination, the strength glinting in her eyes. Her hands pull on his brother's scarf, loosen it and Thor watches her opening the jacket. “Lay him down,” she says, no orders, but he doesn't realize at first who she's talking to, until he feels a small hand coming down hard on his cheek and looks up to see her looking at him, her eyes piercing and cold. “Lay. Him. Down. NOW!”

 

To his own surprise he does as the woman tells him and carefully releases the shaking form of his brother. “He's having some kind of seizure,” she says, more to herself than anyone else, and bites her lower lip. “Give him space!” she suddenly barks at Thor and he is so baffled that he stumbles to his feet again and takes a step back, but he can't bring himself to bring too much distance between the shaking form of his brother and himself. He can do nothing more than stare as the woman fumbles with his shirt and opens the buttons on his collar and then rolls him on his side. 

 

“Lucas,” she says, softly and with a calmness that leaves Thor astonished. She is waiting for a reaction, her eyes fixated on Loki's face, searching. The blond god feels a hand on his shoulder and looks to his left, where Sif is standing. Behind her he can make out the faces of the Warrior's Three, all wearing the same expression of fear and surprise. He wished he could just look away and at his friends, but his brother is drawing his eyes back to his violently trembling form. Thor just wants it to stop.

 

And it does. There is a gasp, and the shaking stops as suddenly as it has started. Fandral sighs in relief, but Thor sees the look on Rachel's face as she leans in over Loki and brings her ear up to his mouth. Her brows furrow, and now Thor hears the breathless mumbling, sees the faint movement of his brother's lips. He's on his knees before he even realizes that he moved, greedy for the sound of Loki's voice, for him to say that everything was all right. 

 

“Brother?” Thor asks silently and holds his breath. 

 

“--away,” Loki breathes, and Rachel shakes her head, signals him that she hadn't understood as well. 

 

“What?” The blond god whispers, and reaches out for his brother's hand. He wanted to take it, squeeze it, show him that he wasn't alone, that Thor was here, and he would take him home, where he was save. 

 

Loki's eyes were still closed, but relaxed, and he cleared his throat, licked his lips to make his voice return. “I said,” he begins, and suddenly his lids shoot open with one quick movement and he looks directly at Thor. “GO AWAY!”

 

He should have know it. He should have seen it in his eyes when he opened them. The way they pierced through Thor, the anger, the hatred, the _pain_ boiling inside them. He had thought as soon as he would have found his brother, everything would be all right, and the problem would disappear into nothingness. 

 

How could he have been so foolish?

 

There is the prickling of magic around them, and Thor can do nothing more than turn his head away before he is lifted into the air and thrown across the room. He hears gasps of pain and surprise, the shatter of porcelain, a scream that is abruptly brought to its end by a thud and a sickening crack. He feels his back connecting painfully with something hard that gives in before he is thrown further against the wall.

 

It is over in a second, and Thor feels a throbbing pain spreading at the back of his head. He grunts and opens his eyes, ignores the stars dancing in his vision. Stumbling, he comes to his feet, steadying himself on the edge of the table that had been flipped over by his own body. “Sif,” he growls and receives a painful moan as an answer, but when he looks in the direction it came from, he sees her scrambling up, unharmed apart from a few scratches. “Volstagg, Hogun, Fandral!” 

 

His friends are scattered over the room, but they look fine enough that he hasn't worry about their well-being. Immediately, his eyes search the spot where Loki had just laid on, but it is empty and there is no trace of his brother. Or the woman.

 

He remembers the scream. The thud and the crack. The crack of bones. What Loki did was merely a distraction to flee, he hadn't attempted to kill the Asgardians, it needed more than that to actually harm them. But, they hadn't been the only ones in the room. Slowly, Thor's eyes wander over the floor towards the open door Rachel had knelt in front of when she was tending to Loki. It led to the hall way and there he saw her legs sprawled out in an awkward position, her left leg turned to the side in a way only a dislocated hip could make possible. Her torso, then her right shoulder, disfigured, her arm hanging limply. Her head, drooping, giving way to a red flower of blood spreading out at its back. There was a smeared trail of blood leading towards her from the highest point of the wall.

 

“LOOOOKIII!!” Thor screams and runs out of the flat and around the corner into the hallway, a peal of thunder following his voice and filling the air with electricity.

 

***

 

“Volstagg! Look after Rachel!” Fandral barks as he runs off, following Sif and Hogun, who took off after Thor. 

 

Volstagg does not feel well when he looks down on the limp body of the girl. He might be a warrior, but seeing an innocent being wounded – or worse – is nothing he can take lightly. Especially not since this young woman had given everything to protect Loki from them. And how did the trickster thank her for it? By throwing her against a wall, that's how. He sighs and crouches down beside her, combs the renegade strands of hair away from her face. 

 

To his surprise and relief she flinches and draws a shuddering breath. “Lucas...,” she breaths, and it makes Volstaggs hair stand on end, for it sounds more like the whisper of a ghost than a young woman. “Hush now, girl,” he says, and carefully cradles her into her arms. “Everything will be all right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my God, Rachel. I'm so sorry!


	7. Hold your Breath and count to Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I never wanted it to come to this, Brother,” he exclaims full of regret. “But your mind is too poisoned by insanity to let my words break through.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Adele - Skyfall

 

 

Loki runs, through the hallway, around a corner, towards the stairways. Towards his escape. Behind him he can hear Thor roaring his name, listens to its echo being thrown off the walls, then the thunder. Oh, he had made his brother – the word coaxes a giggle from him – very angry. Asgardians and their pride. He simply threw him and his friends a bit around, no harm done. But no – Thor has to make things dramatic.

 

He is rushing down the stairs, taking two steps at a time, the fool would not be able to get his hands on him a second time. Not today. It had been unpleasant enough to open his eyes to the dumb face of the bearded oaf, his visage only inches away from his own face, their breath mingling. And when he thinks of what he had done before that--

 

Loki quickly derails that train of thought before it can bring him anywhere near sentiment. From above him comes the sound of footsteps, three pairs if he is not mistaken, and with a flick of his wrist he produces a mirror image out of thin air, then he leaves the stairs and vanishes around the corner, listens to Lady Sif and her company – Hogun and Fandral, but where is Volstagg? – run past him and further down the stairs, tricked by his image. They are so quick to forget his powers, but maybe, for once, it plays right into his hands that they tend to continually underestimate him. For now the only question remaining is about the whereabouts of the blond twit. Most likely he has gone lost somewhere between the flat door and the stairway.

 

Loki walks over to the window facing towards the small, paved square in front of the complex. He can make out Sif and the other two running over it, trying to hunt down his mirror image, nearly catching up to it. Sif jumps and pounces on it, throwing both of them to the ground where she presses her blade to its neck. Loki allows her a few moments of success before he lets the image disappear into thin air again, relishing her frustrated scream and the way she paces around, looking for the real him. 

 

The sky is ripped apart by lightning, and Loki squints his eyes, massages his temples. His head is throbbing and there is a faint feeling of nausea. The thunder following directly does not help one bit and he has to cling to the window sill to remain standing. Damn the oaf! 

 

Anyway, where in the nine realms is he? Apparently not even his friends know, because Loki can see them searching the sky for any traces of the hammer-wielding buffoon. Rain starts to pour from the thick black clouds above them, and again thunder rolls through it, a deafening sound. Curse Thor and his antics, couldn't he have gotten hold of the Sword of Sunshine instead of the Hammer of Thunder, or at least something else quiet that was not so excruciating when one--

 

He never finishes the thought, because just when the thunder starts to die away, he hears the window in his back break and as he whirls around he feels Thor's fist connecting painfully with his stomach. 

 

Loki is thrown through the window and out into the open, glass shards cutting through the fabric of his clothes and into his skin, leaving red marks behind. While falling he sees Thor following him, his face a grimace of rage, teeth bared, his cape billowing behind him, the lightning illuminating his face on one side and painting shadows onto the other, and for one tiny, short moment, Loki knows how Asgard's enemies must see the prince on the battlefield.

 

Then he hits the ground and the air is pressed out of his lungs by the impact.

 

***

 

“It is no use,” Rachel says weakly and closes her eyes. “You will have to relocate it.” Volstagg scratches the side of his head, too overwhelmed by the prospect of relocating the girl's hips. He is no healer, and the few things about healing he knows are reduced to battle wounds, and dislocated hips certainly do not belong under the term battle injuries. 

 

“It's okay,” the girl tries to cheer him up, and he feels bad. He should be the one cheering her up, not the other way around. He looks at her, the eyebrows furrowed with pain, the cold sweat on her pale face and her glassy eyes. Then he nods, because he cannot let her go through this alone. By Valhalla, that girl had gone through too much for one single day already, and he was no inexperienced lad any more, but a battle hardened warrior. She nods too, then swallows, “good. Give me... I need something to bite on.” 

 

Volstagg pats over his armour, searches for something he could give her and settles for his belt. “This will do,” she agrees when he hands it to her. “Now, put your hands here,” she takes his hands and puts them on the side of her leg, at the height of her hips. He notices how weak her grip is and how badly her hands are shaking. “When I tell you, you push, until you feel the joint head returning to the socket, all right? And... and don't stop because I'm screaming, okay?” He nods again and she takes a deep breath. “Okay,” she repeats, more to herself than to him before she puts the belt between her teeth. They look at each other and Rachel nods, her eyes already squeezed shut in preparation of the imminent pain. Then Volstagg pushes.

 

Her scream is reduced to a low growl by the belt, what makes her sound like a wounded animal. It sounds terrible, full of pain and there are already tears streaming down her cheeks. Her left hand is gripping his arm, squeezing so tightly he can feel it through the armour. He nearly stops when the growling turns into breathless sobs, but then he feels it, the joint slipping back into place, connecting with its socket. Volstagg immediately takes his hands off her leg and the sobbing slowly ends, changes into long and deep breaths and something muffled that sounds like “Fuck”. 

 

It takes her a moment to regain her composure, but he waits patiently at her side, although he wishes he could have run off with the others to find Loki and Thor. 

 

“I'm sorry,” she finally says when she takes his belt from her mouth with shaking fingers. “I ruined your belt.” She is breathless and still weak, but hopefully it will be easier to carry her now. Volstagg just snorts and takes the belt back. “I don't mind.”

 

“Good. Now let's go, I bet you would prefer being down there with them over being stuck here with me.” The words are not spoken in reproach but understanding, and Volstagg is once more surprised over this small Midgardian woman. He is certain she would've been a good Asgardian, maybe even a formidable Shieldmaiden such as Sif. 

 

Slowly and carefully he picks her up, carries her on his arms so that she can rest her head against his shoulder. “Volstagg?”

 

“Mhmm?”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“You're welcome.”

 

***

 

Loki rolls away in the last moment before Thor rams his fist into the ground, right where his head would have been hadn't he reacted so fast. Quickly, the trickster stumbles to his feet and calls for more of his mirror images, lets them spread out over the square, perfectly detailed clones of himself, laughing and jumping around endlessly. 

 

“What now, oh Odinson?” they speak at the same time. “Where am I, where am I not?” He watches Thor roar and lunge out at the nearest Loki, but Mjölnir goes right through him and the image flickers and fades. “Oh, you have learned nothing,” Loki remarks, belittleing amusement in his words. “Still the dull-witted oaf I remember, acting without thinking.” The Asgardian aims Mjölnir at another Loki, and lightning erupts from the hammer's head, lashes out and hits him. Twitching, he collapses to the ground and disappears. “Hot-tempered and lead by your feelings instead of common sense.” Thor whirls around, looks, searches for anything that could give away the true Loki, the smallest of details. “Do not strain yourself, Odinson, you are still as blind as ever, unable to see what is right in front of you.”

 

It is too late when Thor sees the daggers made of ice cutting through the air, flying towards him. He barely dodges the first one, but the other two find their target, pierce through armour and skin. Loki watches him stumble but catch himself before he can fully go to the ground. At least one thing the Asgardian could be proud of. “You talk of being blind, Brother,” Thor says and grunts with pain as he pulls the daggers out of his left arm and side. He throws them to the ground and they shatter, the blood the had drawn being quickly washed away by the rain. “But you are the only one that does not see, as blinded by your hatred as you are, you hurt those nearest to you.”

 

Loki snorts, then chuckles and finally outright laughs at the blond god. He laughs with the voices of his mirror images, a choir of laughter and ridicule, turned towards Thor. “Those nearest to me?” he asks when his laughter slowly subsides, and his voice is oozing bitterness and pain. “Tell me, _Brother_ , did you mourn me? Or where you too occupied by the thoughts of your little Midgardian girlfriend?” Five more daggers are shot at Thor, but this time he crashes them with Mjölnir before they can do any harm.

 

“Yes, I mourned you, Brother--”

 

“I AM NOT YOUR BROTHER!” Loki screams despite himself, and the crowd of images closes in on Thor, surrounds him. He turns and turns, watches the images, searches for the one made of flesh and bone. Loki does not like that the Asgardian could provoke him like that, could bring him to this outburst. He rubs his temples and sighs. That oaf worsens his headache even more. “The times in which you had been close to me are long since gone, Odinson.”

 

To his disbelieve, Thor regretfully admits, “I know, Loki. But I was talking not about me, but about her.” He points towards the door and Loki follows his outstretched arm with his eyes until he sees the broad form of Volstagg standing there, carrying something smaller in his arms. 

 

“Rachel,” he whispers, and the horde of images follows suit. His eyes see the disfigured, broken shoulder, the way her head lolls to the side, against Volstaggs shoulder. And the blood making her hair stick together at the back of her had in ugly, dirty strands. 

 

“Do you see now, Brother, what your blind anger and hatred causes?” Thor's voice is silent and sad. “This woman only ever wanted to protect you. She was resistant in telling us where you are, and she hurried to your side when you collapsed. _And this is how you thank her?_ Look what you have become, Loki.”

 

He cannot tear his eyes away from the limp body, looking so much smaller than ever in Volstagg's broad arms, a pale and wounded child, blood smeared over her face and neck from the wound at her head. He hadn't meant to... He never would have...

 

Images poured into his mind, happy pictures of him and Rachel, so much more painful with the guilt they bring, cutting into his soul with sharp claws, tearing, gnawing, scratching and biting until there is only pain and regret. But it is not his fault, is it? There had been a reason he had erased his mind, had shoved the memories behind that door and sealed it after he had put the spell on himself so Heimdall would not be able to see him. He hadn't want to be found by Thor.

 

Thor.

 

“ _You_!” Loki whirls around and points at the damn Asgardian, the proud prince who isn't able to let go, the one who had only ever brought him pain and sorrow, who had not loved him back equally, who had allowed the others to look down on his brother, who in turn had loved him dearly, so dearly that it hurt deep inside him, that he yearned for the touch of his blond one, his warmth on his skin and his laughter in his ears. “You made this happen! You came after me and dragged everything out into the open that I had tried to forget.” Loki screeches his accusation and it is amplified by the choir of his voice, the jury calling him out on his failures.

 

Odinson's shoulder's slump, and he seems to get smaller and smaller under the accusations thrown at him. Loki should stop pouring his heart out and tell them of his weaknesses, he is baring his soul to them, and now they would know where to stab. 

 

But he cannot keep his mouth shut, and as much as he wishes to, his tongue will not stop moving. “You could not just leave me here in peace – No! You could not let your defeat go and came after me, because your pride dictates you to keep me from forgetting your greatness!”

 

With every word he says, another mirror image is spawned and joins the crowd, until there are dozens of Lokis surrounding the blond god, screaming, pointing, grasping, and tearing at Thor, their faces cramped masks of anger and reproach and hate. Sif and the Warriors Three give their best to hack and slash at them so they vanish again, but their number is too great, and the friends are not able to fight their way through to Thor, who is caught in the midst of the crowd, being shoved to and fro by countless hands.

 

“I never wanted to hurt you, Brother!” Thor shouts and tries to fight off the assaulting hands reaching out for his arms and neck.

 

“ _Lies!_ ” the answer rings around him. “ _Do not lie to me, Odinson!_ ”

 

Loki thrusts his hand into the air and Thor's eyes widen in horror when he sees the pale skin turn midnight blue slowly, starting from the fingertips, making its way down over the hands and lower arms around him until the vanish beneath the rim of clothing. There is the cracking of ice in the air, and glorious coldness that caresses Loki's skin and turns the rain around them into hail. From somewhere Sif screams Thor's name, but Loki ignores her, concentrates on the ice forming around his hand, growing and growing until a spear is formed, reflecting the lightning like a diamond. “Enjoy your time in Valhalla, _Prince Thor!_ ” 

 

With a single motion, the spears thrust down, and Loki sees himself finally succeeding.

 

But it never comes to the satisfying feeling of skin giving in to the piercing tip of the spear, no blood pooling beneath a slack body.

 

There is a roar, unearthly, and it mixes with the rumble of thunder, reverberates in Loki's chest and he is lifted off his feet, soars through the air and towards the the apartment complex, lightning lashing out from where Thor is standing and thrusting Mjölnir into the air. Loki's body is cramping with the electricity of the lightning, feels it like millions of needles rolling through his body, and he lets out a strangled groan before his head is slammed into the concrete wall.

 

His mind goes foggy and his vision darkens along the edges, but he can still hear the weak cry coming from somewhere near him, “Lucas!”

 

***

 

Rachel had not been able to believe her eyes when she saw what was going on in front of the complex. She must have lost her mind. There was _no way_ this all could be true. Weren't it for the throbbing pain in her head and the burning in her shoulder and leg, she would've thought she was dreaming.

 

But she had felt the power of Lucas magic herself, hadn't she? Carefully, she lifts her good hand and touches the wound on her head. It is only a laceration and looks worse than it really is, but the feeling of nausea and the pain in her head tell her she has a concussion, and she hopes no haemorrhage was caused.

 

Well, there are more important things at the moment than her injuries – namely the horde, no, _army_ of himself Lucas had summoned from God-knows-where. 

 

Thor screams something against the sound of thunder, but he is too far away for her to hear. The only thing that tells her what he's talking about is his outstretched arm, pointing at her, and the expression on Lucas' and his clones' face of surprise and pain. Rachel hates how helpless she feels. There is nothing she can do than watch from far while the brothers exchange blows, physically and verbally in an endless back and forth. Volstagg must feel the same, because he is nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his eyes flickering over to her whenever he can tear them away from the fight in front of him. 

 

“Let me down and go, help him,” Rachel finally says, having enough of his guilty glances. The big man hesitates and she squirms in his arms. “Come on!” she demands. Relief flickers in his eyes, but it is quickly chased away by guilt. “But you are wounded,” he objects, but lets her slip to her feet anyway, too eager to join his friends instead of just stand here and babysit her. Rachel sighs and shakes her head. What, in hindsight, was a rather bad decision, and she swayed dangerously too the side, steadies herself on the door frame. Volstagg's hand closes a bit too tight around her arm and she hisses in pain, what makes the poor guy look even more guilty. “No offence, but bruising the already wounded person is rather counterproductive.” She pats his belly reassuringly when she sees the his cheeks glowing red with embarrassment. “It's okay, just go. You can do more good over there than here with me.”

 

“Are you sure?” Rachel has no doubt he would stay here with her if she would ask him to, but she meant what she said. “Yes I'm sure. And now go before I start hitting you.” 

 

Volstagg smiles over her empty thread, because it is obvious there is not much she can do in her state still he says, “I better get going then!” and runs off. “Just don't hurt him,” she calls after him, but he apparently hadn't heard her over the thunder and Lucas' screaming, because he neither turns around, nor does anything else to acknowledge what she'd said. Rachel is left hoping for the best.

 

Gingerly, she tries out how much weight she can put on her left leg, but it comes close to nothing. Nearly instantly she draws the breath in through her teeth and blinks the tears of pain away. There is no way she can walk over to the brothers and slap some sense into those two, not now at least. She tries shouting Lucas' name, but the thunder, rain, screaming and fighting noise swallows her voice wholly, so that she even has difficulties hearing it herself. 

 

Rachel only manages a few carefully taken steps along the wall when she sees Lucas putting his arm into the air. Even where she stands she can feel the air around her getting more chilly, and she starts hugging herself to fight the creeping cold off. Is she imagining things, or has Lucas' hand just turned a lot darker? Like... stained by frostbite. And there is something white forming around his hand, growing at its sides. Ice. A giant icicle.

 

The wind carries a single word over to her. _Valhalla_ , Lucas had screamed, and a finger of ice is scratching down her spine. He certainly doesn't want to...?

 

She doesn't want to see what comes, doesn't want to keep on looking, but her eyes are locked to the two brothers and the spears of ice pointing at Thor. Time slows down when Lucas finally thrusts down and her mind is already showing her the picture of a limp Thor laying on the ground in his own blood and Lucas looming over him, laughing madly. 

 

But then lightning rips through the sky, so bright it blinds her and she _has_ to look away. There is a roar, and thunder, and noise, and she doesn't know what's going on any more. Then there's silence again, deafening, even the thunderstorm seems to be drawing a breath. When she opens her eyes, she sees Lucas laying not far away from her, leaned against the wall in an awkward position, and for a moment she fears the worst.

 

“Lucas,” she gasps and tries to get over to him. 

 

She is relieved when he turns his head towards her. He seems a bit dazed, but else fine, and she sighs. “Rachel.” His voice is a bit hoarse from the screaming, and his eyes are looking her over, get caught on her broken shoulder and the dried trickle of blood on the side of her neck, the way she has to move along the wall, cautiously avoiding to use her left leg more then necessary. She can see his expression of surprise turn into one of painful gilt and self-blame, and she rolls her eyes. “You idiot!” she chides him. “What are you doing? Don't scare me like that!”

 

“I-- what?!”

 

“You heard me! Stop fighting with--” Rachel goes on, but is interrupted by Thor, who is coming nearer with wide strides.

 

“I never wanted it to come to this, Brother,” he exclaims full of regret. “But your mind is too poisoned by insanity to let my words break through.”

 

“Lucas, stop!” Rachel screams when he stumbles to his feet, but he doesn't hear her, too occupied with his brother as he is. He clearly thinks he can go on like this, but he does not see what Rachel sees – the dark rings under his eyes, the hunted look, the sweat on his too pale skin, his shaking knees. Even though there is a small trickle of blood running down Thor's side, he looks clearly to have the advantage. He stands straight and tall, looming over his brother, Mjölnir tight in his hand, his face furious, but carrying a trace of sadness. 

 

“You should have thought this through before you came to get and drag me back,” Lucas counters and bares his teeth at the blond in a ferocious snarl.

 

Rachel knows she has to stop this before something terrible happens that they both will regret deeply, but it doesn't matter how much she screams, the gods – and she is certain now that that's what they are – don't hear her. She grinds her teeth and her legs nearly give in when she starts to put weight on it, but she bits the yelp of pain back. There are more important matters than that now.

 

“I won't let you get harmed by them, Loki, I swear. But please, come home with me. Mother and Father miss you. _I_ miss you.”

 

Lucas' laugh is short and dry, lacks any amusement. “Are you trying to beat me at my own game, Odinson? Do you know what they will do to me when I set a foot back on Asgard?!”

 

She's getting nearer to them, only a bit more...

 

“You can either come with me, or I will bring you there my way!”

 

Just a bit...

 

“I'd like to see you try!”

 

Only...

 

“ _Don't tempt me_!”

 

Just...

 

“DO IT!” 

 

“YOU ASKED FOR IT!”

 

Rachel holds her breath. She hears the cracking of lightning again, sees the flash of bright light and it takes all her strength to shove herself away from the wall and between the two brothers.

 

***

 

For Thor there is the humming of electricity and Mjölnir vibrating in his hands, and a small shadow suddenly moving out of his peripheral vision and to the space right in front of him.

 

***

 

For Loki there is the sound of naked feet on concrete, then a glimpse of red hair, dancing like fire, and a name on his lips.

 

***

 

For Rachel there is pain. Then nothing.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is one of the most dramatic things I have ever written in my entire life. It was nerve-wrecking. Prepare yourselves for more angst and madness.
> 
> You have been warned.
> 
> Also, I have no idea how you relocate a hip.


End file.
